Strong Poison
by wallyflower
Summary: Severus Snape knows there is only one way to make his new wife happy. Formerly Yours and Yours and Yours. SSHG
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:** (This story is currently undergoing editing, but the only changes will be in the style and continuity, and not in the essential plot. Still, I would recommend a reread, if the reader has time, of the earlier chapters; I've adjusted the time line to fit events better.) The poem from which the current title was taken is by Leo Marks.

A note on British English: This story was once posted with fairly Britishized spellings ("realised", "apologised"), but now that I'm editing it, it feels artificial to me—in my country, American English is spoken—and makes me uneasy.

A note on the use of "Snape" as opposed to "Severus": This is one of the style changes; the narrator now calls our protagonist "Snape." I hesitated at first, thinking that this may make the story sound less personal, but then so many writers—particularly crime fiction and mystery writers whose detective characters often appear in more than one story—have done the same without sacrificing a sense of intimacy. (I even think using last names to refer to lead characters lends a voice of affection to the narrator.)

- - -

CHAPTER ONE

_If you are afraid of loneliness, don't marry._

Chekhov

- - -

The House in Naples, of course, he would leave to her (Severus Snape thought, picking up a pen and beginning to write). Even as the Snape family sank into debt and had to sell most of their estates and jewelry, Severus Snape's mother had clung to this particular property and refused to part with it; by the time she died, it was the only legacy that so many centuries of the Snapes had left. And when Snape himself was gone… it would be as though the Snape line had never existed, nothing of them left but brief mentions in the footnotes of history. He tried not to think about that.

He could, of course, sell the House and reserve the money for the funding of Her future education… but he thought that she might have good memories of the Naples house. She had seemed to like it there. It had been necessary for Snape to take care of some Order business in Italy immediately after their wedding, and Dumbledore had suggested that he take his new wife with him, to at least give the public an illusion of a honeymoon.

He remembered. She _had_ liked it there. She'd been less hostile to him… and yet somehow "hostile" seemed not a proper word to use. In his mind, Snape picked adjectives as if out of a hat: Angry. Aloof. Distant. Detached. Cool… Yes, she had been less cold to him while they were in the Naples house. The place had been called many things through many years, but Severus had grown to think of it as "Refuge" and it was as though, silently, Hermione agreed with him. She had liked the place on sight; he remembered her stepping away from his arms once they had portkeyed, and her dazed eyes as she took in the large windows, the welcoming furniture, the tapestries. She had lifted those eyes to him and for the first time since the Ministry had sealed their fate she looked at him with no anger, with only soft warmth.

She had been just as… _nice_ (the only word Snape could think of) for the rest of their stay. He had memories of afternoons in the library, coming home (Yes, that sounded about right) and finding her deeply ensconced in the sofa before the fire. He remembered mornings of watching her from the upstairs window; she was often in the flower garden, happily digging away. By the time the clock chimed the breakfast hour she would come inside, bearing a bunch of flowers to place in her room and on the dining table. They talked a lot. She was often smiling.

He knew that she hated him, hated him with a hatred unrivalled by even that which she felt for Voldemort. He might have thought, before, that she wasn't capable of hatred, but he recognized it when he saw it, and it was there, in the pursed-lip, narrow-eyed way she looked at him when she thought he wouldn't notice. Her hatred was like the stagnant and long-lasting resentment of a child, sometimes irrational, often seeking—in Hermione's case, effectively—to hurt indiscriminately. He had never more regretted the things he had said to her when she was younger, his student.

Still, in Refuge he had believed, only for a short time, that she might grow to love him, perhaps as a companion. He began to court her in very small ways, leaving books on her bedside table, new garden gloves, seeds for her favorite flowers. With each gift she rewarded him with a gentleness in their conversations and with an unusual, unexpected, entirely welcome compliance to his small requests.

And it was the place where he first knew, truly knew, that he loved her.

It was in the library, of course. They were often there when Snape wasn't away. He had shown her an hidden alcove, where some of the older books were kept; it was very dark in there, to ensure that the more delicate tomes wouldn't be affected by the sunlight. He had had to climb a stepladder to move the curtains on a high, stained-glass window, bathing the alcove in many-colored light. He recalled the sound of her gasp as the alcove was fully revealed.

"This is amazing, Professor."

He'd stepped down and moved behind her, taking a random book from a table (he suddenly did not know what to do with his hands) as she came forward. Her hands had immediately reached out for the closest book, then drew back without touching it; she had quelled her urgency and stood for many long moments, staring dazed and with slightly opened lips at the exposed spines, at the old scrolls.

It was just a bunch of books. She was just a greedy child. He probably shouldn't have felt what he'd felt.

But as they stood there, silent and unmoving, he watched light's play on her hair, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the flutter of her eyelashes every time she blinked. He felt the eternal pull of those books as well, the feeling that these words on scraps of paper would last forever, and he thought for an instant about precisely that—forever. And he saw himself in it. And he knew that time could flow and fly around them through a hundred years, turning all the books into dust, threading white into her hair and lines onto her skin, reshaping Snape's nose into a beak, his hands into gnarled twigs. But the two of them would not change, not really. In eternity—in whatever time and in whatever place—he would still be standing behind her, his heart in his throat, longing to step forward and cross the space between them.

She had turned around at the sound of a book dropping.

What was that?" she had said, looking around, her first thought the welfare of the books in the alcove and her tone almost of irritation; she frowned as she saw the offending item on the floor, by Snape's feet. She was ready to sound a rebuke. Then she saw Snape's face. "Are you… quite all right, sir?"

Snape blinked. He had come back to the world. "Yes, of course."

Reeling from his realization, he took a step backward. "I am fine. Now, you, you go ahead. You may take any books you want." I would give you anything you would take from me, he wanted to say, but of course he did not. He turned on his heel and exited, leaving a satisfied Hermione to kneel among her books.

They had returned to England about three weeks after that. Gone were her smiles, their long conversations by the fire. The face of Harry Potter intruded into the sea of his memories.

Months after leaving the House in Naples, Snape looked down at his hand, poised above the parchment, dripping green ink onto words he had previously written. He cursed softly and muttered a cleansing charm. There was no time to indulge in silly memories. There were still so many things to arrange.

I, Severus Snape, of sound mind and body… 

- - -


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

_Fool, would thy virtue shame and crush me down;_

_And make a grateful blushing bond-slave of me?_

--Death's Jest-book

**- - -**

They had been married in December, the Marriage Law having been passed two months previous.

Severus could remember thinking what a nasty present it must have been for her, to end up tied to a much-disliked man; the Marriage Law stipulated that Muggleborn and Half-blood witches above eighteen accept at least one bid submitted for their hand in marriage. The Snape-Granger union had been less a tactic to make the personal best of the law than a ploy directed at the interests of the Order; under the guise of marriage both Snape and Hermione could pursue War Business (as she had taken to calling it) without inconvenience. It was a war tactic, and Dumbledore had advised the two of them to think of it that way. It was good advice; keeping this in mind had made Severus less bitter about having his life so completely disrupted.

In war, everyone had to learn the value of sacrifice.

Hermione, however, being young and so full of dreams, had complied grudgingly and only because the Headmaster had asked her to. For this, Snape could not blame her. She was polite—that would never change. But throughout their short engagement and the first few months of their marriage, she never went out of her way be particularly kind to the man who had (from her point of view, at least) so easily ruined her life.

Not that, of course, she was prevented from pursuing her dreams. The day immediately after the wedding, Snape (perhaps in a futile attempt to coax some kind feeling from his bride) had sat down to write recommendation letters to the two most prominent wizarding universities. He had asked her the night before, during the awkward reception after the ceremony, what she intended to do in the near future, and she'd answered quietly that she intended to study. After her reply he'd even added solicitously, "So now I may change my plans to accommodate yours."

He had intended to be considerate, but at his last words she seemed to realize completely the magnitude of the situation, how their lives were entirely intertwined now. His heart sank as her lower lip began to tremble, his throat tightened as he noticed tears prickling in her eye, and he'd stood up immediately and escorted her from the room to their new chambers, where she spent the rest of the night crying softly while he sat in the sitting room and stared into the fire. Two days after that, they'd left for Italy.

He remembered how frightened Hermione had been when he'd taken her in his arms to bundle her off to their rooms, and he thought, a little sadly, that there was one thing that might have caused her consternation—the prospect of him taking her to bed. The Law did not require in specific terms that they _consummate_ (he thought derisively) the marriage immediately—only that they sleep in the same residence. However, those who hadn't been deemed "infertile" by the head nurse at St. Mungo's were required to produce a child within the first five years of the marriage. These were desperate times, and the Wizengamot and ministry legislature had abandoned moral scruples, or anything resembling them.

He didn't think anyone had asked Hermione if she wanted children. He had never really thought that he would have any (he'd never thought that he'd marry in the first place) but, he thought secretly, personally he had no objections to having, perhaps, a little girl with brown curls or a boy with Hermione's eyes.

Snape knew that he would never tell her this. He had kept his feelings for her buried long enough—he did not need to see the dawning knowledge in her eyes, or her sure abhorrence.

They returned to Hogwarts and continued their academic life, him teaching and her studying. In the wake of the whirlwind that was their wedding, things seemed to fall back into place and the days developed a certain rhythm. They would wake up, take individual showers, and part in the usual way: He would escort her to the door (since he refused to eat breakfast in the Great Hall) and say quietly, "I will see you later," and she would nod politely and go with nary a word but "Yes, Sir." He would spend the rest of the day wondering when she would stop calling him "Sir" and asking himself why it was bothering him so much anyway.

The next time he would see her would be at dinnertime (they did not have classes together), and after that, briefly before going to bed. She'd her homework in the library or in the common room and come stumbling into their chambers at late hours. At first he had taken no notice of this, understanding how she would want to spend less time with him as possible. But as the days crawled by he began to feel a sort of resentment for her, mixed with a certain hollow feeling and a conscious desire to see her more than those brief three times a day. He discovered one day, while prowling about the library hoping for a glimpse of her, that he might perhaps be missing her.

It had been enough to make him laugh bitterly, for many reasons. He could think, now, of a few. How could you miss someone you'd never had? And they were married. Surely, now, he should be complaining that he was seeing _too much_ of her.

The intensity of his incomprehensible feelings on the matter pushed him, one night, to wait up for her in their sitting room. (It was odd, how he clung always to that odd word, "their." Somehow it assured him, reminded him she was his wife.) When she entered, he surprised her by hissing softly, "What do you think you're doing?"

Startled though she was, she had recovered enough to assume that coolness that she seemed only to use when she was around him. "I am going to my _room_, Professor Snape," she said defiantly.

"What time do you think it is, Hermione?"

She'd barely flinched at the use of her given name, clutching (he saw now) a couple of books more tightly to her chest. "Two in the morning," she said and added spitefully, "Sir."

Snape knew, rationally, that she was only lashing out at him for things that she didn't feel she could sufficiently blame on other people, and that he deserved what he was getting because of the way he had previously treated her. But he was hurt (though he hated to admit it) by her icy regard of him, and he'd been hurt by it the moment that she had turned to Dumbledore, so many months ago, and asked, "Have I no other choice, Professor?" He was _hurt_ and angry and cracking under the agonizing strain of being married to a woman who didn't want him. He knew he was nearly shaking with rage when he said, "Do you have any idea how this will look to other people?"

"How _what_ will look to other people?" she had retorted, cruelly.

"You!" he'd nearly yelled, losing all restraint. "My wife! Gallivanting around the god-forsaken castle at all hours of the night!" He could feel himself breaking away from calmness and rationality, and even as a part of him recoiled in shame at the tone of his own words, another part of him rejoiced at being able to make her flinch, at being able to _hurt_ her, in retaliation for her coldness, and the niggling suspicion in the back of his mind that there was something, something he needed to know…

He pushed the thought from his mind, and continued. "And more than this—do you have any idea of the danger that you keep putting yourself in? Keep in mind that there are several students in this castle capable of harming you. Can you imagine how easy it would be for a Slytherin to sneak up on you while you walk down to the dungeons at two in the morning?"

He found himself in front of her, grasping her shoulders as she looked up at him, terrified at this change from polite husband to raving lunatic. "No one to hear you scream! No one to come to your rescue!"

She wrenched herself away. In his mind Snape was bewildered at how easily he had lost control of the situation. She was already too angry to be pacified, and somehow he was too. He felt enraged. Her next words only fuelled the feeling. "Maybe I don't _need_ anyone to come to my rescue! Has it occurred to you at _all _that I can defend myself sufficiently?"

"You silly girl," he snarled, "I can tell you right now that you and your puny wand won't stand much of a chance against Malfoy junior and those two boulders he calls allies—"

"Why are you so worried?" she spat. "It's not like I really _mean_ anything to you, I'm only a bother to be dealt with—shouldn't you be _glad_ that I'm not here to bother you, or to ask you those silly 'know-it-all' questions that you despise so much—"

His anger drained away in the face of her own. He was suddenly struck by panic at the sight of her sudden tears. He reined in his tongue, fearing that he would say too much. "Hermione—"

"—wouldn't it all be so much easier for you if I dropped dead, right here, right now?" Her voice was so very loud, and so close to breaking. She dropped the books she held in her arms, her voice hoarse and beginning to break with strain. "No more wife, no more silly know-it-all Granger—"

He began to fear he'd pushed her too far… he instantly regretted his harshness. "Hermione!" he said, to stop her frenzied tirade, "I have been told to protect you!"

"Protect me! _Protect_ me!" she half-screamed into the room, lashing out at him with all the frustration and shattering sadness of the past months. "You're only doing this because Dumbledore told you to! You might talk to me as to a fragile thing, you may be polite to me in that way you must think is so kind, but you're only doing your damned _duty_! You probably never thought of marrying, did you? I don't mean anything to you! If it were any other girl you would still be this way—"

"But what do you _want_?" he spat, surprised at the bitterness and dejectedness in his own voice. "Would you rather that I be _im_polite, that I treat you as any other dunderhead student I teach in class? Or do you want the opposite—do you want roses and violins and flimsy declarations of love?"

The chasm between the two of them was as wide as it had ever been. He pushed from his mind visions of a conventional courtship and the trappings of a love that had never belonged to him—that he hardly believed in, and that he had encountered only in stories and in second-hand experiences of those around him. Love had, it seemed, not been made for him.

The knowledge that he was hardly the first choice of a girl in the first bloom of youth, a girl with her talents and opportunities, now seemed to manifest itself in the feeling that something was eating incessantly away at his insides.

"No!" He came back to the present at the sound of her voice. "I want—I want—"

But she never got to finish her sentence. She didn't need to. He was not a stupid man, despite all evidence to the contrary. He knew what she wanted.

She buried her nose in the fabric of his robes as she began to sob, and had she looked up she would have been surprised—perhaps unpleasantly—at the emotions warring on Snape's face. She was touching him, voluntarily. It took him a moment to digest that information, before he let his hands come up to touch her shoulders in return. What measure of comfort could be derived from those thin arms, those skeletal hands? Yet he couldn't help but try.

As she burrowed into his thin chest, a part of him exalted, and another part of him wanted to kick himself for having made her cry, and over a curfew! The regret was absolute and instantaneous. He had never been good at sensitivity or putting himself in other people's shoes, and tonight, no matter what he had told her of her own protection and the necessity of vigilance, he had only been thinking of himself, confusing his hurt and anger with his duties. To complicate things even more he felt, not for the first time, that intricate sadness that came of the unchanging truth that this was as far as he would ever get. This was the only way he could ever come near her. So much for the power of husband over wife.

And into this confusing muddle came something that Severus recognized instantly for what it was—physical desire. It was hot and uncontrollable and unwanted. Even as his arms drew up, seemingly of their own volition, to pat helplessly at her shoulders and back, he was horrified that he wanted more than this contact.

Was he so depraved that he would feel this sort of attraction for a girl half his age, who hated the sight of him and who was only standing this close because she had no one else with whom to share her sorrow? It was disgusting to think. His face burnt bright red.

She was still his student. She might not come to his classes but she was still his student. He recoiled.

With as much gentleness as his inexperience and awkwardness could muster, he removed her arms—which had snaked around his waist—and dropped one hand into a pocket in search of a handkerchief. He found one and, hoping it would be tolerably clean and not unpleasant-smelling, clumsily pushed it into her hands. With visible trepidation, she took it, and blew her nose.

As she wiped at her face, he led her away—not to his bedroom, not as he would had they been _really_ married, but to a chair near the fire. He waved his hand and conjured a glass of water for her.

He looked down at her as she drank, face slightly red from the exertion of weeping, and he thought (ridiculously) that she really was absurdly pretty. When her soft gasps and sniffles had subsided he stood over her for a few moments, unsure of what to do. And then, feeling a sudden burst of clarity—suddenly he knew exactly the right thing to say—he half-knelt in front of her (Oh, if the students could see him) and did a miraculous thing.

He apologized, quickly and soberly and sincerely.

It was like a raree-show. It only drove through town once and was never seen again. Perhaps, with another person, in another time and in another place, it would have been difficult to extract an apology from him—but sometimes remorse does wonders for loosening one's tongue. She was not exempt from a reminder that her safety was of the utmost necessity, but still, she had his apology.

In the morning they would return to their regular routine, tonight's event being (he knew) one of the few-and-far-between emotional episodes that this marriage would ever have. Hermione would still, occasionally, return to their rooms late, but he would never again chastise her for it, instead alerting the Headmaster of the greater necessity of safe corridors. The memory of her tears would remain fresh in his mind.

Perhaps Hermione would even recall this incident—one straight out of a novel complete with a sobbing witch and a heartfelt apology—with some embarrassment.

But at the moment, Snape couldn't think of anything other than how tonight probably signified what the Muggles called a "breakthrough" for the two of them, and he found his mind filled with visions of smiles over morning coffee and reading in front of the nightly fire, all the trimmings of a smooth marriage. All because he thought she probably knew now that his primary concern was her safety and that he cared about her to some degree. All because he had, for the first time in his life, knelt down in front of someone and thrown dignity to the winds.

How was it that, a year or so ago, he would rather have died than apologised to anyone—and yet, now, it was all too easy to grovel at her feet? He knew the answer, deep down. He had long given up his pride where Hermione was concerned.

He was even more sure of this when she nodded again and—for the first time that he could remember—smiled at him.

- - -


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: I'm sorry for the very late update. I have steadily been working on this story, never fear. This chapter is very short, a thousand words less than the previous one, but though I have written part of chapter four and considered appending it to the end of chapter three, I felt that this chapter focused on one central thing and I didn't want to ruin its compact composition that way. I also feel that the poem excerpt below, written by Amy Lowell and about sacrifice, is very fitting.

A note on grammar (or diction as the case may be): According to The Columbia Guide to Standard American English, "_To stamp_ may be a trifle less heavy than _to stomp:_ dainty princesses _stamp_ their feet when angry; professional wrestlers appear to _stomp_ (_on_) their opponents." I'm working with the assumption that this is consistent with the British usage of the words "stamp" and "stomp."

A note on the timeline: The wedding took place before what fandom calls the inevitable and mandatory "Final Battle". This chapter continues (give or take) three months after that, when the dust is still settling. While undoubtedly important to the wizarding world, the war, however, is not the focus of this story. Strong Poison is about the impressions and memories of a character about a dysfunctional marriage, and of an attempted suicide. It's not that I don't want to write about the battle, but it just isn't central to the plot.

- - -

CHAPTER THREE

_On this stone, in this urn_

_I pour my heart and watch it burn_

-- Amy Lowell

- - -

Snape rubbed at his eyes and immediately winced—he just remembered that he had ink on the tips of his fingers. He probably had a dirty spot on his nose now. Perfect.

He had been working all morning, making notes from heavy Potions books like _Pick Your Poison: Lethal and Undetectable Potions_, even though it was a Saturday and he could have gone to Hogsmeade for a drink and a change of scenery. He remembered briefly that he should have already gone to get his wife her weekly supply of chocolates from Honeydukes; it was considered safer for her, now, to stay within school grounds, since there was no end to the danger posed by the renegade groups that the Final Battle—as the newspapers called it—hadn't _quite_ managed to eliminate.

In a way he couldn't believe that it had happened. It happened merely a month after their return from Italy—a short time after his one Apology (he felt it deserved the capitalization), and days after that unwelcome Discovery (which also deserved the capitalization) that he was still pushing from his mind whenever he could.

He had thought that he wouldn't survive, and at the time, he wished that he wouldn't. He couldn't see the point of surviving.

And yet by the grace of God he did, waking up to the white light and disinfectant smell of a hospital and wondering if it was over. Bleary, bandaged and with one eye patched he had been presented to his wife, who was unharmed; she had, under his orders, been locked away for the duration of the battle, and when he saw her he anticipated her anger at being so manipulated. He was right to expect it, but emerged, relatively unscathed, from the torrent of words she had spat at him.

"I know you were worried about your friends," he had slurred, still only half-awake, during a lull in her tirade. "I'm sorry." But he wasn't. He had kept her safe.

Perhaps he had been drugged, but at he thought he heard her say angrily, "It wasn't just them I was worried about!" His heart leapt. At the time he had taken it as a sign of her concern for him, and had fallen asleep again, almost happily, allowing a cautious joy to comfort him. It wasn't until later that, realistically, he understood that she had meant that her concern was not reserved for a select few.

This morning in the relative peace after the battle had come and gone, Snape contemplated the possibility of allowing her a weekend outside—letting her wander around Hogsmeade under the best protection charms he could give her, allowing her to see the changes that had been wrought on the village, in and around which the battle had taken place. As much as he might have liked to present her with the gift of temporary freedom, Snape conceded to himself that it would be reckless.

Snape knew he would rather deal with the cabin fever of one Hermione Granger—Hermione _Snape_—than let her wander into Hogsmeade unprotected. He remembered how well she had reacted to _that_.

- - -

'_You can't be serious.'_

_He pretended to be fixated on the third-year essays he was grading. 'Oh, but rest assured I am, my dear.'_

_The light before him shifted, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione come closer to him (blocking out the light from lamp beside his armchair). She radiated controlled anger._

'_How much of a threat is there that you find it necessary to keep me locked up in this castle?' she asked, clenching her teeth._

'_Don't be so melodramatic. You are hardly being "locked up". You are free to wander the grounds and spend your time in any way you please—just not in a place where there is a definite threat of danger.' He pushed his reading glasses higher up on his nose and continued marking._

_Her anger was nearly palpable. 'So this is it, then. Albus Dumbledore will let his schoolchildren fight grown-up wars; he will let them marry their Professors; he will let them go off on missions for his Order. But he will not let them nip down to Hogsmeade once a week for a bit of Honeydukes' best."_

_He looked up, finally. He fixed his gaze on her, pensively; she glared, seething, back. She was angrier with the Headmaster than with him, he realised. If she saw the castle as a prison then he was only the guard at the door, while it was Dumbledore who had the key. While relieved that his wife didn't actually hate him for something over which he had no control, he was displeased to be the object of her (temporary) resentment. _

_Snape removed his glasses and laid them on his lap. 'Miss Granger,' he said, reverting to her former title to let her know that he was displeased, 'if you will cease this intolerable display of childishness, I should very much like to finish grading these abysmal essays.'_

_He imagined that she was resisting the impulse to stamp her feet. It often surprised him, how truly young she was; while in some ways she outstripped her friends, she lacked the gravity of Neville Longbottom, as well as that willingness to accept how things would not always go one's way, that he saw so often in many of his more downtrodden Slytherins. She would have taken offence at being compared to a spoiled eight-year-old, but the comparison was clear in his mind, producing equal parts amusement and unease. _

_Hermione took her leave of him and swept off in the direction of her bedroom; he noticed that she did not slam the door, which would have been another 'display of childishness'. He longed to go to her, but stopped himself. His advances would not be welcome._

_He did not hear her stir from her rooms the rest of the night._

_The very next morning, when the sun was not fully risen and the castle was only beginning to stir, he put on his cloak and set off in the direction of Hogsmeade. When he returned to their rooms, he quietly opened the door to Hermione's chamber, breathing a telling sigh of relief that she was still asleep. He padded—for he was an old man now, he thought, not without amusement; he had learned how to "pad" where he would have "stalked"—across the carpeted floor and stood beside his sleeping wife, wondering many things that he would not voice. Stopping himself, he withdrew from his pocket a small box, marked "Honeydukes", and deposited it on her bedside table, surprising Hermione when she woke an hour later._

_If she could not come to Hogsmeade, then he would bring Hogsmeade to her._

_- - -_

Of course, Hermione would not comment on the lack of chocolates this week. In fact, he had not seen her all morning; she had been avoiding him for days, and the remembrance of the fact twisted his gut for reasons that he could not decipher. Besides, she was too full of pride to enquire into the matter of why he was spending his Saturday morning holed up in his study instead of going down to the village for a few chocolates. Acknowledging that there was something that only he could procure for her would be admitting that she was in any way dependent on him. That was one thing Hermione did not like remembering.

He sighed, rubbed his neck (careful to avoid using the hand with inkstained fingers) and looked at his notes. _Pick Your Poison_ had actually been very helpful in the matter he was researching, despite the dubious title; the only thing left to do would be to try brewing the suggested potions and feeding them to certain test subjects.

He considered using an inanimate object and transfiguring it into an animal, so he could see whether the poisons he had "picked", so to say, really would be undetectable post-mortem, especially if an autopsy were to be performed on a body that had imbibed them. However, he knew well the inadequacies of using a transfigured subject; for one thing, it could return to its original form while still being autopsied. Or, on the other hand, the objects could only _seem_ to copy the appearance and characteristics of an animal, while their insides are not perfectly formed to copy the original.

Only a wizard skilled at Transfiguration could ensure that either case wouldn't happen, and Severus Snape—he had long ago admitted to himself—was not very good at Transfiguration. An above average student while he was still at school, he supposed, but not willing to risk making mistakes in _this_ delicate matter, because in _this _matter there was no room for mistakes.

And appealing for help to any of the three persons most skilled at Transfiguration in the whole school—Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Granger, excuse him, Hermione _Snape_—was simply not an option. Albus would ask what he was doing (and it had taken Snape so many pains to conceal this little plan of his) and would not give up until he was told the truth; McGonagall would be like Albus, only more terse, and she would probably chide him for his less-than-stellar Transfiguration abilities, and _then_ she would probably tell Hermione during one of their Head of House-Head Girl heart-to-hearts. (Even in his mind he winced at the alliterations.) And Hermione could not know. She simply could not.

Perhaps—the light began to dawn on him as he sat with his eyes closed, pondering the problem—perhaps he could use a live test subject, but use a lethal poison that had an antidote that could be administered in those seconds while the subject was still dying. But no, he realised with a frustrated start; reviving the subject would mean that it could not undergo autopsy, and a trial autopsy was Severus Snape's main goal.

It was not as though he objected to using live test subjects in general. He knew that in some cases the death of an animal in the testing of a potion was less horrendous than, perhaps, the death of an entire population because the creators of a potion to cure an epidemic were hesitant to test on guinea pigs. In this case, he only hesitated because there was only one person at risk here, not an entire population. And that wasn't even him. The person at risk was Hermione (though of course she did not know it yet). She stood, on the outside, to benefit the most from his death. If a poison were to be detected in his system when he was found dead… well, the Ministry could be counted on to manufacture other evidence that she had made a poison to kill him, and they would make the rest of her life a living hell even if she were not to end up in Azkaban. Her reputation, her dreams, her hopes for the future… All would be destroyed. And his purpose would have been lost.

Besides, if a poison _were_ detected in his system, then Hermione would know what he had done, since only _he_ would brew a potion like that. He didn't want her to remember him that way. He wanted her to remember him as a protective, quiet (if not exactly amiable), reasonably indulgent husband who wanted her safety and who would, occasionally, be prevailed upon to humour her and indulge her whims—and always, always to forgive her when she made mistakes. He did not want her to remember the horrified look in his eyes when he caught her with her—

But he was not to think about that.

Snape looked at the clock. It was nearly lunchtime. If he wanted to be remembered as an indulgent husband, then he should probably be going down to Hogsmeade right now; he supposed Anika Yale, who owned and managed Honeydukes, was probably wondering why he had not come down yet. Snape wondered, as he went to his private bath to wash his fingers of ink, and as he hid his notes and his book beneath his bed, if Hermione would like some sugar quills as well. He had never understood her preference for them, but they seemed to delight her. And he hoped Miss Yale had some stock of Honeydukes' best Belgian left. Hermione seemed to like those best.

After all—it was better late than never.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N. Thank you for waiting for this; I know the wait was long. Chapters one to three are undergoing a severe revamp. 

Please note: **This whole story will soon be called "Strong Poison"**, from the novel by Dorothy L. Sayers.

- - -

Chapter Four: A Conversation 

"—O yes, I am poisoned, Mother; make my bed soon,

For I'm sick to the heart, and I fain wad lie down."

--_Lord Randall_ (Old Ballad)

- - -

The answer, when he found it, turned out to be astonishingly simple.

He had been looking for the wrong thing all along. He'd combed all the books in his family's (admittedly meager) library, as well as those of his own and Hogwarts' and the Ministry's, for a poison that would leave no traces on a dead body. The reason that this idea was flawed was that no such potion could really exist—even though all traces of the poison itself would disappear, the damage left behind would leave evidence of the likely ingredients used. It would then be the simple task of a Potions Master or a Mediwizard to reconstruct the working parts of the poison in question. No, Snape couldn't have that.

It was ironic that it was his wife who gave him the idea. After dinner on Saturday, he had her come to the sitting room to discuss her post-graduation options; the deadlines for submissions of applications to wizarding universities and common apprenticeship programs were approaching. She was being very civil, which he considered a vast improvement on her past behavior. He asked the house-elf to bring in some tea and sat across from her.

"No doubt you have already discussed this with Professor McGonagall. Perhaps it would be best if you would make your decisions with her; you have no need to consult me, although, should you need my advice, you will have it. I have made a list of certain options she may have overlooked," he added, handing her a sheet of parchment, which she took curiously.

"Thank you; I'll have her look at this first thing tomorrow."

"I should also add," he continued, "that I have been reviewing my account statements from Gringotts. I think it would please you to hear that you will not need to worry about expenses. Brunges will take care of that," he added, mentioning the name of the small Potions business, found in Critic Alley, of which he was part-owner. He had taken her there once. A distant cousin on his mother's side, a squib, managed it and was part-owner as well; the old John Munting had been charmed by Snape's wife, and regretted that he was perhaps too old to take one of his own. Hermione had seemed to like him as well.

"Expenses?" Her smooth forehead wrinkled. "What do you mean? My parents mean to provide for that."

"I am your husband now," he chided her gently. "I have to protect you, watch over you, provide for you. I am responsible for you."

For the thousandth time since she married him, he'd said the wrong thing. She stiffened and stood up, dislodging a protesting Crookshanks. "You know, I think we'd get along better if you stopped treating me like a child."

"That is not what I am doing at all," he sighed, frustrated. He was getting tired of dealing with her temper and the barbs that she constantly threw his way. Thankfully his own murderous temper seemed to have taken a vacation. Was it because she was being more civil than usual, or was it the alcohol? Perhaps it was the firelight seen through the curtain of her hair. He opened his mouth to explain, and was interrupted.

"Being my husband, you might try to show me a little more respect," she murmured, looking at her feet.

"Being my wife, you might try to show me a little more kindness," he retorted, regretting the words as soon as they escaped his lips. It revealed too much of what he wanted from her. His foot was in his mouth, yet again. He took a swift swig from his glass of bourbon, noticing how Hermione followed the glass with her eyes, and attempted to explain.

"I am responsible for you in the same way that you are responsible for me," he clarified. Our assets are combined now. Surely you remember being told that. At the moment, because you are still a student and have no financially lucrative pursuits or any property, our assets are composed mostly of mine. Still, the funding for your studies will come from those combined assets. The same would be true if I needed funding because I suddenly decided that I wanted to establish a bowling alley in Hogsmeade."

She snorted, and he was irrationally pleased to see her smile as she sat back down again, coaxing Crookshanks back onto her lap.

"What do you know about bowling alleys anyway," she huffed, still smiling, as her cat swatted at her hand. She looked up at him again, and he watched the curious expression return to her eyes. "Does Brunges really bring in that much? John doesn't seem to have many customers."

"It brings in quite enough," he said, trying not to be overwhelmed by the fact that he was discussing money matters with her, like an ordinary husband and wife of an ordinary household. He swallowed, and kept his eyes on his drink rather than watch her wide eyes. "In case you haven't noticed, Brunges has something of a monopoly on the specialized potions market. Even though the location is terrible, wizards still seek out the store because the potions sold by the apothecaries in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley are very basic. They don't even stock Pepper-Up."

"I've never thought about that," she mused. "I was always able to mail-order hair potions or—" she stopped, as though she had revealed too much. It occurred to him that hair potions were not exactly things that she wanted to discuss with him. Those things belonged to her world as a young woman, and did not need to be taken to his notice. Bravely, she ploughed on. "—or ointments, from magazines. The other potions that I needed, I could brew by myself."

"Believe me, I remember," he said wryly, thinking of her botched Polyjuice. (Was he really joking with her? The sound of his own teasing felt foreign to his own ears. He was glad she did not run away screaming.)

"Can't wizards just brew there own?" she asked, as though she hadn't heard him say anything. "It's not as though they're hard to make."

"Not everyone has your, ah, _penchant_ for potions, Miss Gra—Hermione." For a moment he felt like he was in the classroom with her again.

"Oh. Well, thank you. I guess it's much more convenient for them to just buy ready-made concoctions. Are the potions from Brunges very expensive?"

"Not very. Expensive enough, but then brewing takes a lot of effort and is a hard-earned skill. You have no need to worry that you will be taking advantage of the ignorance or laziness of wizards everywhere just because you'll be using that income to study."

She laughed again. He was beginning to feel light-headed. It wasn't the bourbon—of that he was sure. He took a swig again. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him.

"Don't you ever worry about your liver?"

"Evidently not."

"You're going to die early if you keep that up," she muttered.

"I might die early anyway," he countered. She looked stricken. Steering the subject to more pleasant matters, he said, "I only drink it to ease my nerves." _Which are frayed whenever you're around._ "The third-years today were evidently aiming to break Longbottom's record of melted cauldrons." It was a predictable thing for him to say, but still she laughed. It was charming. He wondered if she was ill—wondered why she was tolerating his company more than necessary. They had wandered far off the topic at hand. He cleared his throat.

"To return to the subject of funding," he said, "as you can see, I have been living rather frugally, and as a teacher, I haven't had to pay for these rooms. When you have graduated we will have to move to the Naples house, but as it is, my savings have accumulated quite a lot."

"You remind me of Harry," she mused, biting her lip thoughtfully. "He has money, too, but he's been living just as frugally as you." She caught the expression on his face. He stood up.

"Well," he said. His voice sounded distant even to himself. It was going so _well_. And then she'd had to bring him up. There was a distinct roaring in Snape's ears, and he suddenly felt the need to go to bed as soon as possible. To be as far away from her as possible. His face felt closed. He wondered what it looked like to her. "It seems that there is nothing left to discuss tonight. Do tell me what you decide with Minerva. Good night." He traced, woodenly, the path to his rooms, ignoring her as she raced to keep up with him, asking him what was wrong. He all but slammed the door in her face. The dejection there was amazing to see.

- - -

In any event, the conversation had helped him discover a solution. It was perfect. The results would seem to be neither suicide nor murder—just natural causes, or carelessness. Just an old man fond of his wife and even fonder of his alcohol.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Sorry this is so late. I've been working on a mystery novella, a submission to a mystery magazine, and it's taking up quite a lot of my time.

And please, before you review, DO CHECK THE STATUS OF THIS STORY. Does it say "Complete?" It doesn't. IT IS STILL IN PROGRESS. Do me the honor of waiting before the story is actually finished before jumping to conclusions about the plot, as one reviewer has already done. If you don't believe that I love Severus Snape enough to keep him alive—that, out of whim or caprice, I am willing to treat him just as callously, in my opinion, as JKR did—then at least look at the story status.

- - -

CHAPTER FIVE 

_Their meetings made December June._

--Tennyson

- - -

When they found him he was lying in his laboratory. Considered from a cold-blooded perspective, it was most appropriate.

- - -

In the end he supposed it was the flagrant possession that bothered him—the way it appeared that marriage hadn't changed anything, apart from her sleeping arrangements and her bank account. It was that she had behaved like she owed him no fidelity, and although from most people's perspective that might have been the case, he had at least thought that marriage vows counted for _something_.

The speed with which he had arrived at the conclusion of her faithlessness had been hampered by his erroneous view of her personality. It was easy to believe that he knew her well, and that others like her had marched through his classroom for decades like paper-dolls cut from the same plain material: overachieving, fiercely loyal, self-righteous, quick to react upon perception of an injustice--although her faculty for sensing injustice in the first place was somewhat hampered by her narrow view of the world.

In her refusal to commit any wrongdoing (that she could not explain away) lay equal measures of two things: an innate goodness, and pride. In some ways she reminded him of Percy Weasley, who—though he had the brains and often the motivation for it—was often too proud to commit any misdemeanor and, Snape had thought, to do anything _really_ bad.

Of course they had been mistaken in Percy Weasley, and Snape had been mistaken in his wife. That human beings, however fixed their character, behaved in unpredictable ways was a lesson Snape had never quite grasped.

He hadn't believed it at first, and had tried to explain away a mark he had seen once—a mark in that hidden area behind her ear near the junction of head and neck, exposed when she turned her back on him to put up her hair. In the same way he tried not to think of her coldness to him and her late-night returns to their rooms and her simultaneous absence from the library, those many times that he hadn't been able to stop himself from checking where she was. From those trips to the library he came back unsatisfied, wanting to believe, rather than concluding, that she was studying in her House's common room, sucking on the sugar quills she favored, thinking and doing only innocuous things.

On one such night, sitting in their drawing room and waiting for curfew, the thought had come unbidden and refused to be abandoned. He was visited by visions of a young lover saving her from the loneliness of an unhappy marriage, some ginger-haired Lothario whispering stolen love-rhymes and promises of illicit, escapist joy. And yet he (Snape) had refused to believe it of his wife—had staunchly retained, despite all evidence to the contrary, an unblemished picture of her character in his mind, an unswerving belief in her sense of justice despite the singular difficulties of her situation.

Confirmation came. On Sunday she was allowed to entertain her friends in the drawing room for tea while he sulked around the grounds, refusing—though he hadn't been asked—to breathe the same air as James Potter's son, not to mention the two Weasleys and the charmless Mr Longbottom. One blustery Sunday Snape, chased inside by the cold wind and longing for the respite that warm Italy had provided some weeks before, returned to his and his wife's quarters to find that the company had been reduced to one, and that neither his wife nor Mr Potter had been interested in tea.

Snape was ever a man inclined to introspection, when given the opportunity. Later on he had tried to disentangle his confused feelings by pinpointing what things about the affair had hurt him the most, and it was Harry Potter's continued possession of her—before, and after the wedding—that bit at him most of all. Snape had believed that Potter Jr had at least a modicum of honor—that an exchange of rings, a marriage certificate, and the new addition to Miss Granger's surname might at least inhibit him from pursuing her. And yet it had not been a pursuit. She had been comfortably ensconced in his arms, as Snape saw. It had been going on for some time. It had never stopped.

Their marriage was a farce.

He had stood transfixed, waiting—waiting to wake up, waiting for some sign that it was a joke—until she became aware of his presence, and the two rose from a tangle of limbs and disheveled hair. Potter had looked at him defiantly before marching out the room, and his (Snape's!) wife had stood frozen, bearing no platitudes or apologies, only the stricken expression of a student caught in the middle of a misdemeanor. It was like they weren't even married at all. He looked at the ring on his finger, making sure it was still there. It was as though they had every right.

The ensuing silence, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fire, galvanized him into action. He had no idea how he had made it from the drawing room to his bedchamber, but the next thing he knew he was closing the door behind him, without even the energy to slam it shut.

- - -

He recalled, with some embarrassment later on, the incident that had occurred only a week or so prior—that of him chastising her for returning to their rooms late. The defiance he had seen in her then took on a whole new meaning, and it took him some time to recover from the sting.

- - -

It wasn't long after his unwelcome discovery that the plan had hatched in his mind. It came to fruition months after, the result of careful deliberation. When the time came he was sure that he wasn't doing it out of a sense of vengeance or self-pity; he knew it was the coward's way out of a life that had yet to stop being unhappy and unfortunate, and yet a part of him had been unable to resist labeling it as a noble act of love, saving her from unhappiness and a bleak future. The memory of a conversation in firelight—a conversation about Brunges and money and drinking too much—was heightened in sensation and clear in his mind, standing out like a jewel set in mud, and there it remained until he at last lost consciousness, to be discovered hours later by a House-elf.


	6. Chapter 6

A note on canon compatibility: You may have noticed from the (edited) first chapter and from this one that, while this story is AU as of HBP release, the elements of Snape's mother having been called Eileen Prince and of the poverty that Snape suffered in his youth have been retained; it seemed silly to fabricate a new name just to keep things decidedly AU.

A note on confusing flashbacks: As it is, it is a rather simple plot intertwined with Snape's melancholy recollections. This story was never meant to be easy to read, but sorry all the same if it gets a bit confusing. Careful reading will show you in what part of the time line the narrative is set.

Thank you so much to the faithful reviewers. Fanfiction . net now allows me to see who has added the story to their Favorites list, and while I appreciate that, I appreciate the time taken to give comments more. This story has been in progress for such a long time, and I'm very grateful to my readers for keeping up with this turtle of an author and with the persistent melancholia in this story, as well as with the constant, Ms Lydgate-ish corrections.

- - -

CHAPTER SIX

_My Sorrow, when she's here with me,_

_Thinks these dark days of autumn rain_

_Are beautiful as days can be_

--Robert Frost

- - -

Their marriage, however brief, had taught him a few things.

It was in being married to her that he learned of the unconditional nature of love, which suffered all and forgave all. He was willing to concede, despite his own feelings, that the marriage had not shown her to best advantage. He had discovered, in her, deep reserves of cruelty that he'd had no idea existed—reserves that perhaps she was only discovering herself; perhaps he imagined it, but he had often noted that if she surprised him by some cutting remark, then she surprised herself as well. He had known it from the outset, but in marriage he made and remade the discovery that she was not perfect.

He became aware, in that time when the plan was being perfected and enacted, that he was perhaps being unfair to his wife in only remembering the hurtful and the sad. For all their differences, in temperament and in interests they were quite compatible, and he was convinced that had he been a better person overall—handsomer, kinder, more trustworthy, less manipulative—she might have entertained some interest in him after all.

As it was they managed to get along, most of the time, quietly, though not entirely peacefully. He recalled returning home after a mission to find that the exam papers he hadn't been looking forward to grading were neatly arranged on his desk, with corrections and checks made with Hermione's pencil. There was no accompanying note. His gratitude was quiet and found itself expressed in a beautiful self-inking quill, stowed carefully in an elegant box that mysteriously found its way into her book bag. She might not have concluded as much, but he had meant it as permission to grade whenever she wanted—an expression of trust in her competence and sense of fairness.

In remembering those incidents he was filled with a strange melancholy at the thought that their most generous exchanges had involved no words and no interactions. Then the memory of her sitting in the drawing room, tickling her cheek absently with the quill-feather while she read, revived him.

- - -

Even though they would, objectively speaking, have been his most pleasant memories, he often chose not to dwell—when he chose to dwell on anything—on thoughts of their time in Naples. Into the sweetness of those halcyon days had crept, over time, the bitterness of knowing that the expectations that he had allowed himself to build were nothing but castles in the proverbial sky.

But the memories themselves were sweet. They revisited him at odd times, and although after each recollection he reminded himself of the folly of having hoped, he could still manage a sort of smile for them. Neither of them played the piano very well, but when Hermione discovered old sheet music in the library, they had together removed the dust cover from the old upright piano in a sitting room. The house had once belonged to Snape's grandmother, and the sheet music, found in an old box covered with the dust of decades, was a sundry collection of spirited country airs, melancholy nocturnes, arias, and selections from the stage musicals that his cousins had favored. Sitting on the piano bench with her, attempting to simultaneously play the music and sing what parts he knew, he had felt something—a knot—in himself loosen slowly.

Her face was clear in his mind. Looking at her as he had in the warm light of the room, he thought she was very lovely, and that he was very lucky to have married her. She was extremely intelligent, kind to young children, respectful of her elders, and (usually) well-mannered. He'd thought that she would make a very good wife, and a good mother, and that he was very fortunate indeed.

- - -

In the present, he started awake. The room was full of light, but it wasn't that which woke him. Feeling somebody brush the hair from his face, he had the impulse to swat the hand away, but found he hadn't the strength—he had barely any even to open his eyes. When he did they met his wife's.

It was the work of a moment for him to recollect who she was and what he had done for her, and to deduce where he was. Suddenly alert, he felt the sick wave of failure wash over him, and he turned his face from her, unable to look her in the eyes.

She was crying. "You're a fool, Severus," she said. Her wandering hand found his, and she held his wrist in a vise-like grip. "Such an utter fool."

"I know," he managed to say, in a voice hoarse with sleep and disuse, thick with despair. "I made a mistake." _I'm sorry I disappointed you._

"Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"

"I had planned against that."

"Evidently you overlooked something."

"Yes." He was filled with shame. What a pathetic man you are, he thought, that you failed even in this.

Her voice was fading, and his perception was blurring. He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to sleep, and for the moment elude the consequences of his failure.

"You're a fool" was the last thing he heard her say before falling into slumber.

- - -

It was also in the Naples house that she gave him her last gift. Two days after he had confirmed her faithlessness, a Tuesday, he asked her to accompany him to Naples to collect the flowers she had cultivated for ingredients. He himself was to go through the house to gather important, potentially valuable family heirlooms to sort through, upon the request of his solicitor, who thought it best to take stock of the things he owned now that his assets were no longer just his. Snape was careful in his manner with her. He was quiet with her, not exactly stiff, but how could he look her in the eye when he knew how little she thought of him?

They hadn't spoken of the incident—hardly spoken at all, except for that small request he made, early Tuesday morning as she was leaving their rooms for class. He knew her schedule for the day and knew that she could spare some time in the late afternoon, and hoped she would agree, because he didn't think he could bear to walk into the garden of Refuge. She had made it hers, after all, and like Mary Lennox's uncle he had given it to her without a thought, later to see it bloom and blossom under her fingers. The flowers weren't his to collect.

They portkeyed to the house, and she stepped away from him immediately, and set out in the direction of the gardens, mumbling. Since the Incident she had kept her eyes averted from his and seemed tense and worried in his presence, like a child waiting to be scolded by a disappointed parent. He almost wanted to tell her that she had no reason to be afraid of him. How could he blame her for seeking what happiness she could when, with him, there was none to be had?

She found him later on while he was in his grandmother's old sitting room. He was in his shirtsleeves, dirty and undignified, and he stiffened—but didn't look up—at the sound of her footsteps. He kept his eyes on the old trunk which lay opened before him. She sat beside him, her Muggle denim trousers stretching over her thighs as she poised, Indian-style, on the dusty floor. Her basket of flowers lay nestled in the diamond made by her legs.

"You'll get your clothes dirty," he said, not looking at her.

"That's all right," she said softly.

"I'm almost done," he said.

"No hurry," she replied.

He doubted it, but remained silent.

"What are those?" she asked some time later after an uncomfortable silence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her finger pointing to a handful of volumes stacked haphazardly beside the trunk.

"Family pictures," he said shortly. He was suddenly very sad.

"We've never had one taken."

"Yes."

"Should we?"

"If you like."

Hope, warm and unexpected, filled him. He internally shrugged it away. Guilt, he rationalized. She probably doesn't even know why she feels guilty but given who she is it's a predictable impulse. She will get over it.

"And that?" she asked suddenly.

"What?"

"The box you're holding. What's in it?"

He looked down at the smooth wood of the box in his hands, and ran his hand over the hinges at the back. "It's…" It was difficult to say the words. He forced them out, trying for nonchalance. "My grandmother's jewelry. They were to be given to my wife."

"Oh."

The silence was palpable. The feeling that his insides were slowly dissolving had not really faded within the span of two days, and now it renewed itself. He begged her silently not to ask more questions. His knees began to hurt from kneeling too long. After a while she spoke again, and he stiffened in anticipation.

"You're not giving them to me, are you." It wasn't a question.

He almost turned to face her. Her voice sounded melancholy. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the lock of the box as he sat down beside her, not too close, imitating her style. How incongruous we look, he thought, glancing at his black trousers, made grey by the dust, and at her Muggle attire and footwear. We will never be just right together.

"They have spells woven into them," he said, briefly but not coldly.

"What spells?"

"Fertility," he said. "Fidelity."

In the ensuing silence he returned the box to its trunk, also placing there the photograph albums from the stack on the floor. He turned his back from her. He couldn't erase from his mind the image of her, eyes closed sweetly, while she kissed someone else. He tried, but there was nothing for it. He busied himself with Summoning random items from the fairly large, pink-papered room—a music box from the delicate table beside an armchair, a silver photo frame from an intricately-bordered shelf near the door. There were not many objects to gather, around the house, and this was the last room. His was a small inheritance; the trunk was not even half full.

Outside the sun began to set; the room began to darken.

"Sir," he heard her say softly, behind him. "Sir. Severus."

He was busy wrapping the photo frame in tissue paper, and did not immediately look up.

"Severus. I—I am sorry."

His hands stilled. _Are you?_ He wanted to ask, but resisted the impulse to do so. He still couldn't look at her.

He almost jumped when he felt her hand touch his elbow, tentatively.

"It didn't mean anything. I promise. It wasn't… I thought I wanted… But I… You're—he's not—"

He could bear to hear no more of her stumbling excuses, her insincere apologies. He cut her short, not unkindly. "I do understand," he said, putting the wrapped picture frame in place and warding the trunk shut.

"Please," she said. Her voice sounded like it was thick with tears. "Please."

"You don't have anything to worry about." He prepared to stand, dusting the dirt from his trousers, but she caught his hand with two of hers, squeezing it as it lay limp in the circle of her fingers.

"I was so lonely," she whispered. "I felt trapped. It just felt nice at the time to—If you could just—"

"Yes," he said, to quiet her. "Yes."

"It won't happen again. I promise. Please believe me."

"Yes," he lied.

"Please look at me."

He couldn't resist her any longer. He had longed to hear an apology from her lips but now that he had it, he couldn't believe her.

He remembered, from her youth, the episode of the troll in a bathroom at Hogwarts—when she had lied and said she had gone after it out of a misguided confidence in her abilities, and when he had seen right through her. In the many years since then it seemed that she had gained some practice in the art of dissembling, and in her words now he could not resist wanting to believe her sincerity, although his heart knew the truth.

He turned to look at her small and earnest face, now above his as she, kneeling, tugged at his arm. She was so close. He felt ill with disappointment in her.

"It won't happen again," she repeated in a whisper. She released his arm and, keeping her eyes trained on his, she reached inside the trunk for the jewelry box. She opened it and took out the first thing she saw—a silver chain, lonely and plain without its pendant. He saw her fingers shaking as she clasped it around her neck.

"It won't happen again," she repeated. Even as her face descended toward his own, he couldn't really believe what she was doing until her lips touched his, shortly. Sweetly.

"Yes," he breathed when she pulled apart, and for the moment he believed her.

- - -

(end of chapter)

Author's note: Mary Lennox is from _The Secret Garden_.

As for comments regarding the surprise that Hermione expressed at the end of chapter four, I think the matter is cleared up a little bit by the end of this installment, when she, childishly, assumes that the matter has been cleared up between them and that they are now starting with a clean slate. It's immature, but I think tolerably realistic, given personal experience. Further clarification is found in future chapters. The relationship between them is more complex and full of misunderstanding than even I had anticipated it would be.

I think that a clarification of the time line helps at this point, for those who didn't reread the earlier chapters.

They get married in December.

Mr and Mrs Snape spend three weeks, more or less, in Italy, including the term break.

They return to Hogwarts. Snape chastises her for staying out late and begins to detect signs of her infidelity (see chapters two to five). After about a week, his suspicions are confirmed (chapter five).

They return to Naples for a few hours (chapter six), and make a kind of breakthrough.

Days later, the so-called Final Battle, that standard in fanfiction, takes place. Snape locks his wife away to protect her. Animosity on Hermione's part (and a resignation on Snape's) is renewed, and is compounded by her having to stay in the castle.

Snape conducts research to perfect his plan. Remember the Hogsmeade chocolates and the conversation about Brunges.

At last, Snape perfects his plan.


	7. Chapter 7

Extensive author's notes at the end of the chapter.

- - -

CHAPTER SEVEN

To run away from trouble is a form of cowardice and, while it is true that the suicide braves death, he does it not for some noble object but to escape some ill.

--Aristotle

- - -

" 'Yes,' he said, 'I caught him, with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world, and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread.'"

It took him some time to understand what she was saying. He raised himself up on his elbows, wincing. Hermione, alert to his movements, immediately closed her book and looked at him anxiously.

"Maybe you shouldn't move around too much yet," she said, worriedly. "Your liver is healing."

She was obviously ignoring his embarrassment. She proceeded to rearrange his beddings around him, leaning over so close that he could smell her hair. He inhaled, trying to make sure she didn't notice as she nervously smoothed his blanket.

" Are you hungry? Do you want some water? Your throat must be parched. Here," she said, producing a glass of lukewarm water and anxiously thrusting it under his nose. He felt a stab of annoyance at this unexpected and unfamiliar mix of nervousness and what felt to him to be an unnatural concern.

"I'm not an eight-year-old," he hissed, and when he spoke the pain seemed to come from everywhere—his throat, his head, his gut, his lungs, as though everything had been unused for so long. She flinched at the coolness in his voice, but managed a wobbly smile as he lifted a shaking hand to the glass and took a cautious sip from it.

"Better?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he said. He immediately regretted his outburst as she moved away from him and settled on her chair, the glass disappearing as she went. She surprised him by taking his right hand, and he wondered at her quickness to forgive.

"Do you want me to finish the story?" she inquired. "Professor McGonagall said I wasn't allowed to read you anything serious or scholastic. So I got you this. Father Brown's already dismissed the repentant thief. Do you want me to start over?" With her free hand she brandished the book she had been reading to him. Her attempt to make things seem comfortable and easy between them was transparent. He could not imitate her in this farce. Some questions were to him too urgent to be delayed in the asking.

"How did you know?" he asked, ignoring her questions, dreading the answer.

"You're my husband," she said, and her manner was neither facetious nor coy. "I might not know you inside out but I've got to know parts of you pretty well. It's been nearly half a year now, hasn't it?"

He was silent. Sighing, she released his hand and put _The Innocence of Father Brown_ on the table at the foot of his bed, where lay flowers, three "get-well" cards that Hermione had propped open, a textbook, and a half-eaten apple on a tiny plate.

"They found you in your laboratory," she said quietly, not looking at him. "Your skin was yellow and you were unconscious. They—I mean the mediwizards—didn't notice immediately that your liver was failing, because they were rather distracted by the blood pooling from your head."

Unconsciously, Snape lifted a hand to the back of his head and felt the bandages there, the short hair that scratched his fingertips. Hermione caught his eye and smiled, if wryly. "When you… when you did what you did—took that potion or whatever it was—you must have fallen over. Was it painful, when you finally did it? It must have been, for you to curl up and fall over like that. When you were falling to the floor, you must have hit your head on the corner of a lab bench. It might have killed you. They told me you have a thin skull—though I wanted to disagree," she said, almost fondly. He looked away.

"What complicated matters was what they said was cirrhosis. I couldn't believe it. Your liver had failed. At first they thought that the cirrhosis had led to a coma, but then they realized that things hadn't gone that far yet—that you were only unconscious because of your head injury. A coma wasn't long in coming, though… you might have gone into a coma and probably died—head injury or not—if you had been found a few hours later.

"It was a house-elf who found you. He—or perhaps a she, I couldn't be sure at the time—heard a small crash and had the impudence to check on what was happening in the lab. They wouldn't let me see you," she added suddenly, and her voice was a whisper. "When a healer told me what was wrong with your liver I was surprised. There was something about it that I didn't understand… that didn't quite fit. I know you drank, and often. But it was just a couple of days ago, wasn't it, that we discussed that?" He wouldn't have called an admonishment and an evasive response a discussion, but he had not the strength nor the inclination to refresh her memory.

"And you didn't have yellow skin then, or yellowed eyes. Absolutely no sign of liver failure, at least from what I can remember… no whitish fingernails, no fatigue or loss of appetite or significant weight loss. Despite what I said to you, you didn't look at all like somebody with alcoholic liver disease, or at least somebody sick enough to fall into a coma just like that, so quickly. It seemed possible, but highly improbable."

She gave him a penetrating look. He was reminded of her fits of immaturity, her irritable glares; now she was almost scolding him, half-gently, half with a reproach that bespoke a personal offence. She had become the parent, he the child.

"They asked me if you drank and I said yes, but not enough. They said that, maybe I just didn't see the symptoms, and Professor McGonagall said that was possible, since we didn't, um, spend so much time with each other. But," she said, cheeks suddenly pink, "I see you everyday. I look at you rather a lot, you see."

Both of them looked away, one embarrassed and one at a loss.

"So I put two and two together. I looked through our rooms, and wherever you hid your notes for whatever charm you cast or potion you took (though a potion seemed more likely), you hid them well. I was so sure you made a potion for yourself—a potion that would simulate the effects of cirrhosis, acutely, causing coma and death within a short time. Am I right? Oh, you don't have to answer. In some ways I think I'd rather not know. Anyway, I couldn't find your notes. All I found was this."

She had reached into her pocket, and produced a lavender slip of paper, raising it between them. It shivered and shook in her fingers, not just with the wind of her soft breathing but with the trembling of her hand.

"The receipt for your weekly chocolates." She had never spoken of those before, and despite the gravity of the situation—despite the undercurrent of reproach in her words and the life-death quality of the circumstances—he felt a curious mix of pleasure at her remarking on it, and an embarrassment at the covert tenderness of the husbandly gesture.

"It was for the weekend previous to—to your attempt." She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "And I found it between the pages of _Pick Your Poison: Lethal and Undetectable Potions._"

At this point that he was entirely unable to meet her eyes.

"It was displayed so obviously, so conspicuously on the shelves of the sitting room." She swallowed. In her voice he detected a hurt that he had never expected. "In front of me this whole time."

She looked up at him then, and her eyes were bright. "How long had you been planning it?"

He was unable to answer.

She nodded, sadly. "Yes. I expected that you wouldn't want to talk about it." She fell silent.

- - -

To be fair, marriage hadn't shown him in the best light as well. Despite the fondness for her that had grown in those short weeks in Italy and despite the respect that he had had for her since she was a pony-tailed fourth-year, he remained a private and selfish man. He found her intrusion into the privacy of his rooms, his library, his bathroom and his sitting room something of a trial. He was thankful that he didn't have to share his bedchamber, although that was something that he viewed with a certain regret as well. In some ways it was as though they were reluctant flatmates who stayed out of each other's way as much as possible; he supposed that he expected a certain feeling of being _married_ to come with the sharing of a bed, or at least the sharing of a room (he wouldn't have objected, except perhaps at first, to two beds in one room, for example).

However, her intrusion in other ways was more than enough. He grew tired of seeing her digging into his shelves and reminding her that this-or-that book wasn't hers to peruse—would in fact be dangerous for her to peruse. Her answering scowl would only increase his determination to remove the book from her reach.

Her things found their way to the sitting room, which was surprising, considering how much time she spent outside it. He imagined her coming through the door and releasing her hair from its braid, carelessly letting her hair ties fall onto his immaculate coffee table, allowing a book bag to find itself on _his_ armchair. And the cat hair! Crookshanks was like his mistress in many ways, it seemed, for despite the fact that Snape never saw the cat in the sitting room there was always some bit of fluff to be found on his chairs, and once in his shoes—which were kept in a _locked and warded _closet. That problem alone had been the impetus of a shouting match, or two.

Some time after their return from Naples he could stand no more. That morning he found a brush, complete with some snarls of brown hair, and a collection of small incomprehensibly labeled bottles (Muggle toiletries with Muggle labels!) above the sink, and not in their place, which was a drawer that he had neatly labeled as hers. He had burst into the door connecting the bath to her room, and railed at her for half a minute, surprising her as she was still in bed and indecently dressed. He had then swept out of the room, the better to take out his frustration on an unsuspecting first year who was wandering the dungeons a full hour before breakfast.

In the course of the day he had thought of his words, and he had the conscience to regret them but not the bravery to apologize for his pettiness. He was still contemplating what to do when he returned to his rooms at noon, to find Albus Dumbledore waving his wand and speaking incantations to the walls, which moved aside obediently at his command.

"What do you think you're doing?" Snape had said frostily.

"Installing another bathroom," Dumbledore said equally coldly. "Minerva found Miss Granger in tears this morning. Would it hurt you so much to _try_, Severus?"

That night he lay facing the wall. On the other side lay her bed, directly next to his but for this wall. His shame was absolute. Perhaps she really did deserve someone who would treat her better than he knew how to do. She was already asleep, he assumed, since when he came in, he saw no light under her door, and the portrait in the hallway had confirmed her passing. Snape touched the wall, which he knew was not the only thing that lay between them, and said, "I'm sorry."

He didn't think she heard him.

- - -

The mistakes he had made were simple. They were not ones that he should have overlooked. In the silence that followed he thought of what he could have done better—he could have locked and warded the laboratory so that, when they found him, the potion would have done its work and he would be beyond salvation; he might have waited a little longer to consume the poison, meanwhile consuming staggering quantities of alcohol in front of Hermione, who was after the only one who was in any position to observe his personal habits. He might have abandoned the alcohol idea and found another potion to do its job, attacking his body through another organ. Perhaps he might have faked a heart attack.

He might have at least avoided that confounded lab bench.

It was his eagerness to finish the job that made him careless—overlooking details, not counting on her keen observation, settling on an unimaginative solution to a very challenging problem.

In his musings he was interrupted by a sudden movement. She surprised him by tucking the receipt away, pushing aside the sheet that covered him, and gently—almost gingerly—climbing in beside him, into the cocoon that his warmth had created. There were bare inches between them on the twin hospital bed. She lay sideways facing him, left hand supporting her head, and the other fingering the scant measure of bed sheets between them. Her eyes were averted. From this distance he could feel her warmth, could once again smell her hair. She must have just bathed because she smelled like the early morning in Greenhouse three, where Pomona kept her orchids. His heart thudded painfully.

From the circles under her eyes it was obvious that she had not slept, much. The thought of her keeping vigil beside his bed left him breathless. For the millionth time since he woke up he pushed down a wary joy.

Her voice broke through the silence.

"I might have lost you."

"That was the intent."

"But not the result." She pursed her lips. She was so close that he could see the tiny lines on her lips, and with his eyes he traced the curve of her philtrum and explored the smooth skin of one cheek. "What happened to your head complicated matters, but they managed to heal that. Your liver took a bit longer. Like I said, given time, you could have gone into a coma because the cirrhosis allowed your blood to bypass your liver, so that the poisonous substances in your blood would reach your brain. Death would have followed, as I'm sure you planned it to do.

"Thankfully the mediwizards—and they really are wizards. I didn't think anything could be done, and neither did Madame Pomfrey!—managed to prevent a coma, and magically healed your liver as well as the rather sizable wound on your head. I suggested a Muggle transplant for the liver, but they said they would manage, and now here you are, healthy again." She leaned forward to brush the hair from his face. "And alive," she whispered.

"You weren't meant to find out," he said, softly, painfully. She shrugged, and was once again solemn.

"If you ha d been found even three or so hours late," she repeated, "if help hadn't come immediately, if you hadn't hit the bench and there had been no crash, if House-elf who first found you hadn't alerted the staff as soon as possible…"

"No use in speculating," he said. "It's over." The bizarre quality of this conversation did not escape him.

"Yes. I know." She came closer. "Please don't try that again."

At his lack of response, she sighed, and pushed herself off the bed to move slowly until she was sitting on its edge, her back to him. He longed to reach out and touch the soft fabric of her blouse, to urge her back next to him. A longing for her, stronger than ever, burned within him unexpectedly, piercing the numbness that he had been starting to feel with its startling clarity. Her concern for him raised a familiar kind of hope that he hadn't wanted, and he knew was misplaced as it had often shown itself to be.

"Did I make you so unhappy?" She asked sadly in the still room.

"Of course not." She was being ridiculous, and deserved the acid reply.

"Was it the war?" she urged. "Was it survivors' guilt? Did you not expect to live? I professed to know you just now, but the truth is that I've been sitting in this chair since yesterday, trying to figure out why you did it."

He kept his mouth firmly closed. He would never tell her.

"Was there someone else you wanted to marry? Were you terminally ill and impatient with waiting for your time to be over? Are you tired of me? Are you tired of teaching? I have no idea how you _feel!_"

Her last word rang out, loud and clear, in the empty, unfamiliar chamber that was a private room in St Mungo's.

"I suppose you've never really expressed any curiosity about that," he replied stiffly, wishing he didn't sound so resentful.

"I know," she said, surprising him. "That's my fault."

Outside, a nearby church bell rang out the hour. It was noon. He touched her shoulder.

"You should get some lunch," he said.

"Nonsense. You've just woken up. I'm not about to leave you now that we can talk." She slipped off the bed.

"Don't you have classes?"

She gave him a look. "My husband almost died. You expected me to be sitting in History of Magic while your internal organs were being patched together? Surely not."

"You haven't been sleeping either," he said, ignoring her. "And probably not eating." At her expression he saw that he was right. "There is no reason for you to neglect your health like this."

She sighed and rearranged herself in her chair, which, he saw, she had transfigured into a green armchair that resembled the one in their sitting room. She fixed her legs beneath her and he was reminded of that last afternoon in Naples, a few days before the war, with the sky turning pink outside. The denim of her ubiquitous jeans resting on the dusty floor. He felt, now, that same balance of fear and hope that had assailed him then. Unconsciously he looked at her mouth, which was poised in a serious line as she Summoned _The Innocence of Father Brown_ back into her lap.

She must have mistaken the look of concentration he was giving her to be sternness. "I didn't mean to stop eating," she said, almost defensively, and suddenly she was like a child again. "I was just so—worried. I couldn't force anything down."

"I didn't mean to make you worry," he said, quietly, finally forcing out the words that had been on his mind since his waking. "I didn't think it would affect you like this."

"You must give me some credit, Severus," she said in a harsh whisper.

There were questions that he was burning to ask—_Wouldn't you have been the least relieved? Wasn't there any part of you that felt any joy at your incipient freedom when you knew I was dying? Would my sacrifice have meant anything to you? Have I disappointed you by surviving?_—but he didn't ask them because he wasn't ready for the answers. She had spoiled him with her concern and affection. Her rejection would kill him.

"Everything's going to be better now, though," she added. "Isn't it?"

He didn't answer, because the truth was that he did not know.

She opened the book. He had not been surprised to learn, before they were married, that Hermione was Catholic, just like his father had been and just as Severus himself had been raised. She never said it, but he knew that Father Brown was a particular favorite of hers. It had become his as well, and even though she didn't know it he had bought a copy and kept it stashed beneath the mattress back in his bedroom in Hogwarts. She continued reading about _The Queer Feet_ although she didn't have to, because they both knew the story well.

- - -

_(end of chapter)_

I'm extremely nervous about this chapter. I have been editing it for two days, and I'm now convinced that it's just getting worse with every edit, and that instead of clarifying matters I was just adding to the errors. So here it is, and I am getting ready for tomatoes.

A note on the mediwizardry in this chapter: I'm rather nervous about it. I did extensive checking on the medical background of this chapter, and I think it works out all right (though I concede that in a Muggle hospital, I don't know if he would have survived.), but I acknowledge that I might be oversimplifying or overlooking things here. The first reviewer to give a really useful medical correction will receive a cookie if he or she wants one—though I'm begging you to be polite with your comments; part of the reason it took me so long to get this seventh chapter out was because I was still seething over a rude review from a reader on Ashwinder, and it put me off writing for a while.

A note on religion: I am counting on the intelligence and sympathy of my readers to keep them from expressing any religious prejudice or hostility.

I hope you're not surprised by the Snapes' religion. I had taken it for granted from the start that without that aspect of their characters, there would be no problem, or premise, for the story. What gave me some ideas for this chapter was Ngaio Marsh's _Vintage Murder_, where a character, Hailey Hambledon, asks his lady-love (who happens to be married to someone else) to run away with him, and she says that she would if she weren't Catholic. You see, if Mr and Mrs Snape weren't Catholic—if Hermione were open to divorce—then there wouldn't even be a problem for Snape; he could quietly divorce her and let her live her life happily while he rotted in the dungeons in a morass of self-pity. But, as Julia Flyte from _Brideshead Revisited_ tells her fiancé: "Don't you realize, you poor sweet oaf… you _can't_ be divorced as a Catholic!" Snape (who obviously has no scruples as to sinning by himself, and who might have resorted to divorce if he could have) would respect Hermione's decision to remain married despite the difficulties of their situation.

Obviously suicide, successful or not, is a sin as well, just as (in Catholic doctrine) a divorce would be. Snape actually has no real excuse for doing what he did, and in writing this story, I'm not at all saying that I'm sympathetic to suicide.

As for _The Queer Feet_—it's not very significant to the story of _Strong Poison_, but it may interest some readers that _The Queer Feet_ discusses forgiveness and repentance, among other things.

I hope you guys liked Hermione the sleuth. Next chapter out in a few days.

Update, November 13, 2007, 9.19 pm:

I seem to be constantly appending things to author's notes. Thank goodness fanfiction . net allows us to respond to reviews in author's notes! This is a reply (in advance) to those having difficulty with the concept of Hermione or Snape being Catholic.

http// wallyflower . livejournal . com

Remove the spaces please. : )


	8. Chapter 8

Extensive author's notes at the end of this chapter.

- - -

CHAPTER EIGHT

_Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,_

_Which was my sin, though it were done before?_

_Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,_

_And do run still, though still I do deplore?_

_When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,_

_For I have more._

--John Donne

- - -

The next few weeks were like a dream. Snape moved through the days as though in a fog, in a surreal fantasy at once bizarre and colored with an old sweetness, like old sepia photographs and slow music.

After a considerable exertion of effort on Hermione's part, he was allowed to move to the school infirmary mere days after his first waking. For some time however he did have her all to himself. In those first sweet days in the hospital he drifted in and out of sleep as he recovered, and grew used to waking up, with a start, to the sight of her with head pillowed on folded arms resting on his mattress.

As she dozed there on the side of the bed, she was so near that he could have reached out and, taking in hand a stray curl, kissed it. He spared a thought for the poor state of her schooling and the probably worse state of her back, but all the same he allowed himself to feel a sort of selfishness in keeping her near. Nobody had ever done anything remotely like this for him, before.

Sometimes he watched her until she woke up and stretched slowly, like a kitten, before sparing him a bleary smile. Other times, he woke and saw her, and allowed himself to fall back into sleep. Nearly forty years had passed since he had felt loved in any measure, and with the security of a small child he slept on, warmed by the soft fire that burned in the corner of the room and by her closeness. Despite the lingering pain of his injuries he lay in the cocoon of warm dreams, happy. Safe.

- - -

When he was finally moved to the school infirmary, the Deputy Headmistress wouldn't hear of Hermione's missing more classes. While he recovered his strength, his wife slipped him the journals and books he favored. Like Snape's copy of _The Innocence of Father Brown_, these were stuffed hurriedly beneath the stiff infirmary mattress whenever McGonagall's or Pomfrey's footsteps neared the enclosure wherein lay his bed.

Hermione herself spent what seemed to be every spare moment in the infirmary. He wondered if she even had the time to talk to her friends or to do anything with them. It gave him an embarrassing start to see her back in her uniform the first time, and her answering smile—which was almost mischievous—made him uneasy.

She brought her homework with her and, shoes abandoned, crossed her stockinged legs beneath her on the arm chair; with the quill he had given her held in one hand, she read her essays to him out loud, so he could poke fun at their length and at the dangling modifiers that sometimes found their way into the paragraphs. Without his knowledge she spoke to the house-elves and instructed them to bring her dinner to the infirmary, so she could eat with him in a curious parody of the stilted dinners they had once shared.

She spoke to him gently, and—with a generosity he had never before seen—brushed away his acrid comments and bursts of annoyance with nothing more than an exasperated sigh and a renewed smile. Even when the pain behind his head was the worst—for that was when he said the most terrible things—she merely continued reading from Potions Monthly with nary a grumble or a wince or a grimace.

"You insufferable child!" he found himself hissing one time. The painkillers were wearing off and Poppy was nowhere to be found.

"You contradict yourself," she said, reaching out to a bowl of newly-harvested strawberries from Pomona's special-conditions greenhouse.

"What can you possibly mean?" he had growled.

"You say I'm insufferable," she said. Then she looked at him directly, and smiled. "And yet here you are," she added softly. "Suffering me."

- - -

It gave him a start to realize that these days were beginning to resemble that short time after their marriage, when they had been in Italy. He wondered how long it would be before the bubble burst.

Daily he wondered at her devotion. He wished that he could forget _It_, but behind every smile and every sweet word lay the shadow of that memory that he could not banish, and while he sometimes returned her smiles and allowed himself to relax with her, he thought of it always. It kept his feet on the ground—it kept him from hoping too much, and it kept his tongue sharp when he dealt with her. He wondered if she could be as happy as she was pretending to be. More than ever his failure to perfect his plan pressed upon him, and he felt as though he had been cheated. Two wars, innumerable attempts on his life, one marriage and one suicide attempt later, he was still here, a terror to his students, an annoyance to many, and a trial to his wife.

- - -

He had never spent so much time asleep. There had always been a war to fight, classes to teach, a master to serve, a potion to make. Now there was peacetime (or what passed for it while renegade Death-Eaters were rampant), a substitute teacher, a wife who for the moment demanded nothing, and a laboratory that his wife had sealed and swore she wouldn't unlock for the next two months. Kingsley Shacklebolt occasionally stopped by, perhaps out of some sense of obligation, to tell Snape about the progress being made in clearing the streets of the Death-Eaters, who were presumably led by Malfoy Senior.

During those times he (Snape) feared for Hermione. He was afraid that she would never be safe—would always need protection. Even the hospital room at St Mungo's had been heavily warded, and guarded by two house-elves. Sleep allowed him to keep his uneasiness at bay.

He dreamed more vividly than he had before his Attempt (as Hermione called it.). Perhaps it was because he was no longer exhausted. He felt like he was making up for the missed sleep of forty years. His dreams were filled with memories of a life before Voldemort, and occasionally with fantasies.

Their wedding had been a short affair. Her parents had been present, and they and the Headmaster were the only two witnesses in a small ceremony held in a nondescript parish near the Grangers' dental practice. She looked like she had been crying the night before. He couldn't blame her. Despite the fact that he could have done very much worse than marry an intelligent, reasonably attractive, engaging girl, he felt his life again spinning out of control. Where he had once been bound to Voldemort and then to Albus Dumbledore, he was now indentured in service and fidelity to a wife half his age and for whose happiness and security he would be responsible.

She wore a white dress. He thought she looked very pretty. He wore a suit that made him resemble an undertaker, and they stood, two mismatched figures before the altar. He could easily imagine that it would bear little resemblance to what her fantasies of a wedding must have been, and there was so little that he could do to fix that except buy her the best engagement and wedding rings he could find. He remembered putting her wedding band on her finger—feeling her hand limp in his as he put his ring there, promising her more than he had ever promised anyone else, even including the two wizards he had given the power to dictate his life.

Afterwards they drove home to the Granger household in a car resembling a hearse, with Dr Granger at the wheel and Dr (Mrs) Granger up front, dabbing at the tears that flowed steadily from the brown eyes that her daughter had inherited. Dumbledore sat placidly at the window, and Snape was crushed between the Headmaster and the new Madame Granger, long legs folded to fit in the car and wishing that he could find a beach, somewhere, and bury himself in the sand and never come out. Hermione herself had the other window seat. She was watching the scenery whip by the window, and as he gazed out over her shoulder to see the pastel-painted houses, picket fences and the little children tripping over their feet in the garden, he wondered what she saw.

He came back to that image often, in his mind—Hermione in a wedding dress, looking more miserable than he had ever seen her. In his dreams he crafted a fantasy from those vague memories.

In this, one of his favorite dreams—also one of the most bizarre—he was still looking at her looking out the window. But the windows were open and it was warm outside, and he was in the driver's seat and she beside him, like the Drs Granger had been.

Perhaps, looking out as she had at the normal Muggle streets of people living normal Muggle lives, she had found herself wishing that she could forget magic. Sometimes he wished the same thing.

In the dream he drove—though in real life he wouldn't have had the first idea how—on some unknown country side, in sunny weather and yellow soil. He stole looks at her, his lovely wife. She was wearing her Muggle clothes and everything was perfectly natural. No marriage laws. No magic except the sweetness between them. Occasionally she touched his knee. Once in a while he let one hand fall from the steering wheel, and he would—for in his dreams he was very brave—take her hand in his. There was soft music from the car radio. It was her music—the kind that was usually abrasive to his ears, full of guitars and cryptic words. But how could he care about something like that? Not when she was with him, not with her hand cradled in his.

Dreaming, after all, was free.

- - -

Eventually he was moved to his rooms. Time for Snape had blurred into sleep and dreams and fantasies and Hermione's visits, which were what filled his day. His body, recovering from a magical operation, was sapped of all energy and once she left his presence he allowed himself to go back to sleep, with no strength (and no motivation) to remain awake when she was gone. He did not know what day it was when Pomfrey helped him out of the hospital bed, into the floo and into his sitting room, and then his bed chamber. Where he might once have felt uncomfortable at having Poppy see where he slept, he was not even a little bothered.

He woke up to the sound of humming—endearingly off-key—and the sight of his wife sitting in a chair and bending over to reach her feet so she could remove her shoes. It was odd to see her against the dark woods and blue wallpaper of his room. She wasn't aware of his waking. When she straightened and met his eye she gave a start, and blushed a brilliant crimson.

"Sorry I woke you up," she said. It was so good to see her, even if it was in the lonely light of a solitary burning lamp.

"No need to be sorry," he said thickly. His throat was often dry.

As if in an attempt to regain her composure Hermione smoothed her skirt before him and managed to fit a petulant look on her pink face. "They didn't even tell me they would move you today," she said, sounding extremely put out. "I got to the infirmary and you weren't there. They might have thought to spare me the horror of imagining that something had… happened… to you."

The dinner bell rang and she stayed where she was. He waited for her to abandon her chair but when for two minutes she remained unmoving, he found the courage to ask, "Aren't you going to have dinner upstairs?"

She looked surprised. "No," she said slowly. "I was planning to have it here." An uncomfortably pregnant pause. "I'd hoped you wouldn't mind," she added, speaking quickly, after a few moments.

His heart was heavy. She had once called herself a burden to him but now the tables had been turned; for the moment he was an invalid and she was the wife who felt compelled to nurse him, because she knew that if she didn't, no one would. He wondered if it was a sense of compassion that pushed her to spend her afternoons and evenings beside him in the infirmary and now in his rooms, or if it was that dirty thing, guilt—guilt over her sin, a shared guilt over his. In his attempt to spare her any obligation to him, he had instead bound her further, trespassing on her time and patience.

He felt the pain in the back of his head throbbing silently, but he couldn't let her see because she would fuss and worry.

"You don't really have to do this anymore, you know," he said stiffly and gruffly—although he hadn't meant to sound that way—from his position among the piled pillows.

"I know that," she said. "I want to."

His head throbbed, throbbed, throbbed. Why did she have to make things so difficult? Why couldn't she just _understand_ what he was trying to say and leave?

"Don't be ridiculous." Inexorably the words exited his mouth, and with each one he saw her face getting whiter. "Why are you even pretending? Where is your honesty? You do not want to be here. You don't want to be in these cold dungeons when you could be outside. You don't want to sit here trying half-heartedly to entertain me with your contrived stories and with articles you don't half-understand—neglecting your studies and alienating your peers when you could be elsewhere. You must be looking forward to having some time with your little… _friends._"

It needed to be said. He needed to let her know she wasn't tied to him.

He imagined—a large part of him _hoped_—that she would brush aside his comment and whip out a book from somewhere on her person and begin to read, huffing, all the while, about how he wasn't all right and how she wasn't about to allow her husband to recuperate on his own. She was very stubborn. But--

"Oh," she said. She sounded hurt, and the corners of her mouth turned downward. She felt, seemingly blindly, for her shoes and slipped them on hurriedly. "Oh. All right, then."

- - -

He found that sleep took care of a lot of things. In the silence that followed her swift departure from his room he felt the ache of regret. Could she still doubt him? Could she possibly believe that in telling her that she was free, he meant to say that her company was not welcome? Had it been his tone, his manner of speaking? Had she thought that he was referring to what happened between her and the Potter boy? More than ever he was arrested by regret—regret for the way he was, regret for the way he behaved toward her before they were married, regret for his seeming inability to change his horrific personality despite his desperate desire to do so. His own words rang in his ears and he experienced a regurgitation of misery.

He was _so sick_ of the tangle that his emotions—once so easy to ignore—had become after his marrying. It was sometimes startling to discover that there was someone, a _person_, who could get hurt by the things that he said, and that there was someone who had the same power over him as well. He was also startled by the fact that he could love her and at the same time want to shake her for her stupidity.

He was most startled by the fact that, as brave as he had been before—as brave as he had been in fighting off Dementors and waging war against the Dark Lord and against the various assaults he had suffered for years—that he couldn't find the courage to tell his wife—anything.

What was he afraid of? Her rejection? He had had that. Her condemnation? He had resigned himself to that—not only that his act of cowardice might impel her to be repulsed by the pathetic quality of his sorrow, but also that in sinning the way he had, he might cultivate more of her disgust. Her pity? He had that, and he knew it. Even though she herself was not a shining beacon of perfection, she was in the perfect position to pity him in the way people couldn't help feeling sorry for a suicides in the news.

Turning to the wall and touching once again the stone divider, he decided not to face his demons, and slept.

He was woken by the sound of her sobbing, so different from the happy, tuneless humming of earlier. When they were newly married he had heard the same sound once or twice, and he had done nothing then.

Now he drew himself out of bed, ignoring the reminders that rang in his ears—don't attempt to leave your bed except for the bath, conserve your strength, move slowly. Feeling the strength slowly drain from him as he did so, he Summoned his cane from the side of the chair on which she had seated herself. He hobbled to the door, painfully, pathetically. He could hear her crying the whole time.

It was a small eternity before he could finally fling open the door to her room. She was sitting up, the covers in disarray around her and the fire in the hearth dead, leaving the room in almost total darkness. He could see the outline of her, knees drawn up to her chest and face hidden in the tangle of her arms and disheveled hair. She didn't lift her head when he came staggering in, leaning nearly all his weight on the cane. He was wheezing for breath while she sobbed without restraint. He fell gracelessly in front of her on the bed, taking her bare arms in his hands and asking her, "What is the matter? What is the matter?"

She shook her head violently, her curls flung wildly in every direction. "A nightmare," she gasped between sobs. "I had a nightmare."

He touched her knee uncertainly, and as though galvanized into motion she leapt into the circle of his arms, knocking the wind out of him.

"It's over now," he said, gasping, because that was the only thing he could think to say. It was the only thing he managed to tell himself when he woke from his own nightmares, shaking and drenched in cold sweat. She was so young. She shouldn't have had to go through nightmares alone and comfortless, and he sought to offer what he could, ignoring the pounding of his heart and the strong dull ache of his head injury. "It's over," he repeated. His arms were around her, and she was so warm beneath her clothes.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice muffled. She kissed his neck moistly, and he was warm all over. He felt her breath on his skin, and the wetness of her tears there. "You do know that I'm sorry? You do believe me?"

"Of course," he said over the noise of her violent sobbing, even though he wasn't entirely certain what she was talking about. He was frantically rubbing her back, wishing her shoulders would stop shaking.

"I was sure it was my fault," she whispered. "I was responsible. How could I have known I would make you do that? _I'm sorry!_"

His blood ran cold.

His heart pounded, and it had nothing to do with the exertion of coming to her room. He felt an agonizing wave of self-disgust wash over him. He gathered her closer. He spoke in broken sentences—"Not your fault," "Just a nightmare," "Back to sleep," "Stay with me."

If he had had the strength he would have carried her back to his bed but as it was they made their way to his room, supporting each other, both shaking—she still with tears and a half-remembered nightmare that he would never know, he with the exertion. His cane clattered noisily to the floor as they fell into bed together and she curled up immediately, facing him, still crying. With all his strength he drew her nearer to the headboard so she could rest her head on a pillow, and he watched her—keeping space between them—as she hiccupped and cried her way to a restless sleep.

He had made her responsible for his happiness, and he saw that in her eyes—given what had happened, what he had attempted to do—she was responsible for his life as well. He knew well the excruciating crush of guilt, and her faithlessness had made her guilty; he had never thought that he would be adding to that guilt by attempting to take his own life. The sin that he had thought was solely his gripped her as well. He saw now how horrified she must have been, and what an unbearable burden it must have been for her, a young girl not even out of school, to know that she had been responsible for a man's life—that she had been responsible for his trying to take it. He wished that he could spare her the guilt, but most of all—most fervently of all—he wished, futilely, that guilt would not color everything that happened between them.

Eventually he fell into sleep as well, and when he woke up in the morning, she was not there.

- - -

(end of chapter)

I post this chapter with a special dedication to Whitehound and duj, the first two reviewers of the previous chapter. That theirs were sensible reviews that weren't foaming at the mouth—and that the reviews came from authors I long admired—went some way toward helping me get over my nervousness over posting chapter 7. Of course all reviews are equally important and are received with equal gratitude, so sincere thanks for remaining faithful readers and reviewers, to those who have made it this far; you have made writing "Poison" so rewarding, despite my hesitations and despite the fact that it's the hardest story I've ever had to finish.

I've been thinking of the number of misunderstandings that these two—Mr and Mrs Snape—seem to get into. The only thing I can offer in explanation is that art imitates life. And that crippling self-doubt accounts for a lot.

This chapter owes credit to the video for Norah Jones' "Come Away with Me." Also, when choosing quotations for a chapter, I'm usually extremely careful in looking for something appropriate. The poem quoted above was so fitting that I actually built the latter part of this chapter around it.

"While it was immature of her to think that putting on the locket would fix everything, Snape didn't realize that, to her, it was a proclimation of their future, together, that, for Hermione, she would dedicate herself to their marriage, no matter how unhappy or happy it would be." This is from one of my reviewers (T). Spot on (except that there was no locket and only a chain), and congratulations for putting so well what took me two chapters to convey. Fifty points to the house of your choice.

And finally: as predicted, I got a few foaming-at-the-mouth reviewers for the last chapter. Shrug Sorry, I'm not changing a word. I'd like to please my readers, but not to the point that I'm going to change something that… well, it's not exactly integral to the story, but it _is_ something that makes it a little richer for me. So for the sake of my integrity—I am not after all a writer of made-to-order stories, as one reviewer implied that I should be—I'm going to risk a few bad reviews and keep things as they are, thanks very much. To those who found chapter seven repugnant: you are very free to escort yourselves to the "back" button and to other HP stories, or to pretend that chapter 7 and the subsequent chapters never existed and enjoy chapters one to six in all their dubious (and religionless) glory. To those who are sticking around: thank you very much :D


	9. Chapter 9

A note on the marriage law: I am assuming that Mrs Snape is older than the rest of her classmates and so was subject to the law while some of them were not.

Hufflepuffpride . com and SS/PS list Justin Finch-Fletchley as being Muggleborn, but they don't say anything about his age as far as I know.

Thank you to whitehound for correcting me on two counts; edits have been made. I hope blueberry pudding is more British than blueberry muffins; calls berry pudding a traditional British dessert.

- - -

CHAPTER NINE

Precision of communication is important, more important than ever, in our era of hair trigger balances, when a false or misunderstood word may create as much disaster as a sudden thoughtless act

James Thurber, _Lanterns and Lances_

- - -

There was a visit that he would never tell Hermione about.

Shortly after he was moved from St Mungo's to the Hogwarts infirmary, a hand pushed aside the curtains enclosing his bed. If he had the strength, he would have screamed out, but as it was he was only able to utter a few unmanly whimpers and to reach for the wand that lay beneath his pillow, even though he was probably going to be unable to use it.

"_Silencio_," said Harry Potter.

Snape struggled to sit up and brandish his wand, but Potter was too fast for him. In moments he had Snape held down by invisible tethers, and Snape's wand made a clattering sound as it fell to the floor and rolled beyond the curtains. Snape wanted to strangle him—the neck around which Hermione's arms had been twined.

"For once in your life, you're going to be quiet and sit still and listen," Potter muttered. Snape longed to gouge out his eyes as Potter cast silencing wards around the enclosure.

For a few moments, Snape feared for his life. Then, he shook himself because he was being ridiculous.

When he was done casting spells, Potter stood at the side of Snape's bed, calmly but stiffly and with hands clenched into fists. It was a familiar look on him. Snape did not know Potter well enough to read his expression, but the boy did not seem to be in a murderous rage, despite the invisible bind and the silencing spell. Snape told himself that he was disappointed.

"Look," Potter spat. "I don't care what you think of me. I personally couldn't care if you drowned in the lake. But," and here Potter couldn't seem to speak without swallowing first, "but Hermione's miserable. She's not talking to me right now, but Ron says she's miserable because you won't forgive her. She spends all of her time in here with you. She's hardly studying, she never goes out, and she's constantly worried about your sorry hide, and all she wants from you is your approval, so if you don't forgive her then you're even a bigger fool than I ever thought you—"

At that moment, the door to the infirmary opened. Cursing under his breath, Potter fished his cloak out from under his robe and covered himself just in time to avoid being seen by Hermione herself, who drew open the curtains.

Smiling and holding up his wand, she said, "You dropped your wand. How are you feeling?"

Unseen by Hermione and sensed by Snape, Potter edged past her, and out the door.

- - -

Most ironically, a day after his Attempt, the marriage law was repealed and divorces permitted. Arthur Weasley's campaign against the legislation, after half a year, was yielding results. Hermione looked uncomfortable as she told him this, weeks after the fact. Dozens of divorce cases had been filed already. According to Justin Flinch-Fletchley, who was getting a divorce from a Ravenclaw, many of the sixth- and seventh-years were congratulating themselves on having escaped the fate of a forced marriage.

Snape was happy for them, although he did not say so.

- - -

In the present, there was a knock on his door.

Snape, who had been staring dejectedly at the plate of runny eggs that the House-elf had put on a bed-tray before him, looked up warily as the door swung open with an _Alohomora_.

"Pomona is asking if you prefer the blueberries or the strawberries," said his wife, if indeed it was his wife behind the very large fruit basket that entered his room. All he could see of her were some brown, wayward curls. "She thinks the strawberries are sub-par, but she thought she would offer anyway."

He was at a complete loss for words. Face still hidden behind the basket she lowered her cargo to the carpeted floor beside his bed. When she straightened and looked down at him her eyes were perfectly bright, and her cheeks red with exertion. It was so very Muggle of her to want to carry the basket to the dungeons when she could have levitated it.

"Personally," she continued as though they had been having a conversation, "I think we should ask for the blueberries. There's something I've been wanting you to try—my mother's blueberry pudding. I owled her for the recipe. I hope you'll forgive my presumption," she added, and he couldn't tell if she was apologizing for owling her mother, or for suddenly seating herself beside him on the bed. She smelled like Pomona's greenhouses, and she was closer, so much closer now than she had been last night. An image whipped by his mind's eye—that of her bare shoulder and the pale column of her throat as she lay tangled in his sheets. He shoved the image away, hoping she wouldn't notice his cheeks getting redder.

Transfiguring an orange into a small tumbler, she poured herself a measure of juice from the jug that lay on the bed-tray, seeming perfectly at home. Her arm brushed his as she moved, and when her arm was motionless it was touching him, shoulder to elbow.

"Blueberries it is, then," Snape said, finally.

"I knew you'd agree," she said, beaming.

Not knowing what to say, Snape resumed eating silently as his heartbeat returned to normal. Having woken up without her and believing himself to be a fool for consigning himself to days and days without her company, he felt something in him expand with the knowledge that she hadn't taken his bit of foolishness seriously, and that despite his rudeness the day before and the embarrassment that had occurred the same night, she was still here. A smile fought to make its way to his face as she began chewing on a piece of toast that she pilfered from his plate.

"Severus," she said, suddenly serious.

"Yes?" he said, forcing himself to look at her, tense.

"Thank you for last night," she said quietly.

He felt warmth suffuse his face. "There's nothing to thank me for."

"Severus." She took his hand, which was a hard thing to do since he was still holding a knife with it. She never called him _sir_ anymore. "I'm sorry about everything."

"I know," he said. "I know that."

"I hope you believe me one day," she said, her voice tight. "And I'm sorry for running off yesterday. I thought that I'd got used to you and your… irritability. I'm not going anywhere now. Even if you tell me you want to. I think you still need me," she added in a quiet voice.

_I do._ "I only meant to say that you are not my nursemaid, but my wife."

She began to smile, and had the audacity to wiggle her eyebrows. "You don't mean to tell me your nursemaids sit with you in bed like this."

"Poppy certainly never has," he rejoined, and as she laughed he felt his face relax into an almost uncomfortable but absolutely genuine smile.

"Oh, I pray not," she said, popping a blueberry into her mouth.

- - -

He had only invited her into his bed once but she seemed to take the invitation as a permanent one. He was now used to lying not in the middle of the bed but to the left of the middle, as she was prone to prance in while he was asleep and take up residence beside him. As the days passed—he asked her the date and realized that it was already three weeks since his self-inflicted injuries—he often woke to find her reading and with her feet stretched out in front of her, white socks peeking out from the waves of the sea that was his bedspread. He fell asleep to her smell and woke up to it.

For the first time he could remember he began to be physically comfortable with a person. When she was around she seemed to be always touching him in some way—taking his hand, brushing the hair away from his face. At first each overture made him nervous and happy and afraid, but now he found himself almost expecting them, not shying away from them, and itching to return each advance. There was something about the naturalness of each of her touches that made him gather every memory to himself, greedily, happily. Even as he grew more comfortable with her, every time she touched him, he felt almost a dizzying joy. He would never take her for granted.

One time he started awake, to find his nose poking into her side and his left arm hugging her upper legs. She was sitting up in bed while he languished beside her, but instead of holding a book in her hands she seemed to be examining the spot on the back of his head where he had hit the lab bench. Her torso was curled above him, and her fingers wandered his scalp. Almost as a reflex he felt himself jerk away from her, from the unfamiliarity of close contact, but she stilled him with her hands, murmuring something he didn't catch.

His skin tingled where she touched it. Her fingers worked through the abundant hair close to his forehead and traveled to the nearly bald patch where he had been shaven so that the mediwizards could examine the wound. He felt his throat constrict. Nobody had ever touched his hair like this before. Memories from his schooldays flooded his mind. He hugged her legs closer and felt himself relax, melting, melting.

She stroked her fingers back and forth across the expanse where the hair was shorter. He could almost hear the strands scratch against her skin. "Your hair," she said, "is miserably uneven."

"Yes," he murmured sleepily into the fabric of her school blouse. "They call them 'mediwizards' and not 'barbers' for a reason."

"Would you mind if I cut it?" she said as though he hadn't spoken. "Just to even it out a little bit."

"Does it bother you that much?" he asked.

"Think of it as an opportunity for change," she said with a short laugh.

He seemed to find himself yielding to her every command. She coaxed him so well.

At this point it no longer tired him to sit up for lengths of time, but he had yet to take for granted the miracle of walking easily; he hobbled and wheezed his way to the bathroom, Hermione fussing the whole while.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," she said worriedly as he sat sideways on the closed toilet, silently cursing. "We can do it next week if you want. Maybe you're not ready. Maybe we can do this in your sitting room." (Even after months of being married, she still referred to it as _his_.)

"I'm already here," he retorted, exasperated. He waited for her to fish out her scissors and her wand.

"I don't want you to be nervous or anything," she said as she took position behind him, "but I've never actually cut anyone's hair except my dad's."

Snape thought of Dr Granger's stern face and forbidding exterior, and the surprisingly even temperament and cordiality that lay beneath both. For the life of him he couldn't remember how his father-in-law's hair had looked, those few occasions that they had met.

He touched his hair gingerly. "I doubt there's anything you can do that can make this worse." His wife did not deign to comment.

He felt cold water being sprayed on his hair, and some of it trickled uncomfortably down his neck, to be absorbed by his dressing robe.

"This morning Ginny gave me the spell for using my wand to spray water," she continued as she combed his hair until it lay flat against his head. "I didn't even know a spell like that existed. I only asked her if she knew how wizards cut their hair. What an interesting spell; I wonder if it was first used to water gardens or to water hair. It's not exactly a spell mentioned in our textbooks, but then again, the Hogwarts curriculum isn't very heavy on gardening or magical grooming."

"I suppose the assumption is that those things are learnt at home," said Snape, whose mother had taught him very few spells, and none of them to do with either subject she had mentioned.

"There has to be a book _somewhere_," she said, sounding miffed. "I can't possibly be the first Muggleborn to find it frustrating that there are so many common spells that wizards regard as general knowledge, and that don't find their way to standard spell books."

"You might try writing one," he said, half-distracted by the way her hand was working through the thick hanks of wet hair. "I'm sure Molly Weasley would be glad to help."

"There's an idea," she muttered. "I doubt she'll speak to me at the moment."

"Why would that be?"

"I've alienated her son. Ron and I had a fight last week."

"Why?"

Her hands stilled in his hair.

"You can tell me about your friends, Hermione," he said—as gently as he could manage, head bowed and eyes closed. It pained him to say it but he knew by her tone that whatever the fight had been about, she was still bothered by it.

Her hands still hadn't moved. "He was complaining," she said slowly, "that I wasn't spending any time with him or any of my other friends anymore."

"Perfectly understandable that he should complain," he said, feeling himself almost choked by the words as he said them.

"He had no right to," she replied, with conviction. Her fingers moved through his hair again and he felt himself relax. "They're my friends. They of all people ought to understand why I need—why I _want_," she amended hurriedly, "to be where I am."

"Perhaps they simply… miss you." If she was trying, he could try, too.

Her hands stilled, and moved again. "Perhaps."

"I believe that you cannot really blame them."

"I believe that I really don't want to talk about this right now," she retorted, but it was said with so little bite that it was easy for him to forget her curtness and to simply float in the sensation of being touched.

Was this real, or a fevered dream? Was she really standing in his bathroom, snipping at his hair and murmuring to herself? Had she, truly, once stood in his classroom and waved her hand impatiently at him? The thought that it was the same person—the little girl who had tried to hard to catch his attention, and now the young woman calmly cutting his hair while she stood barefoot on the tiles, jarred him and at the same time pleased him with the strange intimacy. He waited, quietly, for it to finish, and when she pronounced the job done, he missed her hands immediately.

- - -

What followed was bliss. It was like being loved. It was like being married.

She tried so hard. He was not such a fool that he could fail to see that. She slept in his room now, and as the days passed several things happened: he grew in strength; she crept closer to him on the bed every night; and her things found their way into his room. Where before he had been irked by the very sight of a hair tie on his couch or a book left open on a table, now he rejoiced every time he saw the tip of a feminine shoe peeking out from under the bed they now shared. Her dressing gown, which was blue, was now draped over his chair.

She now kept a comb by her side of the bed. It both saddened and endeared him, the embarrassed way that she reached for it before anything else, every morning. He caught her at it once; bleary-eyed he stared at the flurry of motion that was her hands and that luridly pink comb that worked its way quickly, almost angrily, through her hair while she sat up in bed. He wondered if she did this every day. It was a brown nest this morning. He was, despite himself, utterly charmed.

She caught him staring and turned her head swiftly away; he saw the bright pink tips of her ears. "Don't look at me," she said. "I look a fright."

"Far from it," he said honestly.

"Go back to sleep," she said, "Or at least look away until I comb my way through this mess." She sounded unconvinced.

He obliged her and looked away, but he could see her from the tall mirror that stood at the foot of his bed. He watched her reflection. She finished combing through her hair, and wondered if she cared so little for it that she just ploughed her way through it, quickly, her only goal to disentangle the strands. He remembered the way she had touched his hair—the great care she took in combing it, in trying not to hurt him. He looked at her face—her small nose and the curve of her mouth, the sweep of her cheekbones—and caught sight of his own face in the mirror. Of the two of them, she was not the one who looked like a fright.

"You can stop pretending not to look now," she said, sounding cold. She stood up and threw on her dressing gown, cinching it around her waist and wearing a scowl on her face.

"You are a very strange creature," he told her as he looked up at her.

She touched her wild hair and shot him a hurt look.

"It's not like I haven't tried to tame it," she said defensively. "I've tried all sorts of potions and charms but they haven't worked, not even one. My hair tangles within minutes of combing." Seeing her misunderstand his meaning, he began to laugh; this, if anything, seemed to make her feel worse. "Since you find it so amusing," she said, sounding hurt, "I'll go ask Professor Flitwick if he knows a charm strong enough to handle it. I'm sure he'll find—"

"No," he cut her off, breath short with dying laughter. He sat up in bed to regard her seriously. "I expressly forbid you. Your hair is preferable the way it is."

He was still thinking of her answering blush long after she left the room.

- - -

Four weeks after his "accident"—for nobody but Hermione knew about what he had done—he was well enough to receive students in his office. Some of the staff poked their heads through the door to offer him a greeting or two, and the Slytherins each had their turn to talk to their Head of House. To those who had the audacity to ask about what happened to him, his answers were evasive. With the rest, he had only to deal with such normal, run-of-the-mill matters as NEWTs and OWLs and homesickness.

He was in the middle of one such interview when Kingsley Shacklebolt entered without knocking. Snape was too tired to stand but he threw the other man a glare as the student excused herself and fled the room.

"How will my Slytherins ever learn good manners," Snape drawled, "if they do not see decent etiquette practised by their elders?"

Shacklebolt ignored him and proceeded to sit on the uncomfortable high-backed chair facing Snape's desk. Snape felt himself grin inwardly at his guest's obvious discomfort.

"I've come to tell you," he said, "that a sort of Headquarters for the renegade Death-Eaters has been discovered. We're planning a stake-out tonight. We don't expect you to come," and here Snape shot him a glowering look, "but we thought you'd like to know. When many of them are brought in, you may have to confirm that they were Death-Eaters."

"Will I have to testify at the Wizengamot?" Snape said, who found the thought not only repugnant but somewhat worrying.

"There's a distinct possibility," Shacklebolt replied, "but we'll try to find a way around it. We would like to prevent them seeing you. It might just make them angrier at the fact that you're not in Azkaban along with the others of Voldemort's supporters." Shacklebolt used the name freely. "If they're not convicted, then that will just make things worse for you and your—your wife."

"I see." There was no bite in Snape's tone.

"We are trying, Snape," Shacklebolt retorted, as though he could read the other man's mind. "Despite the fact that Voldemort is gone, it's still not safe out there. We estimate that there must be at least fifty of his supporters still active, and that's a dangerous number. There was an attempted attack on Alastor last week, and Arthur still hasn't recovered from the time he was ambushed on his way home from the Ministry. You're not the only one who wants to see those bastards locked up."

The door opened. Both men—including Snape; Shacklebolt noted this with a raised eyebrow—stood up as Hermione walked into the room, her bookbag over her shoulders. She smiled at Snape and nodded at the auror.

"Kingsley," she said warmly.

"Madame," he acknowledged.

"What brings you to Hogwarts today?" she asked.

"I've been telling the Professor about the search for the renegade Death-Eaters," Shacklebolt said bluntly before Snape could stop him. Hermione laughed when he added, "I wanted him to know that progress is being made, so he wouldn't take it upon himself to find them all."

They turned to find Snape scowling at both of them.

"I won't let him," Hermione said softly. Shacklebolt looked back and forth between the two of them, made his excuses, and left the room.

- - -

He lay on the bed while she dressed. The Weasleys were having a party. He had given up pretending to be asleep. He faced the full-length mirror in his room. She stood in front of it wearing a green dress with flowers printed on it. The moment she saw her reflection she looked dismayed, and flounced off in the direction of his bathroom, before emerging again in a blue frock. The process repeated itself and with each trial he could see her becoming discouraged.

He couldn't resist. Eventually he said, "What are you doing?"

She jumped and turned around. "Just trying on a dress," she said self-consciously, smoothing it down and tugging down one sleeve. It was blue again, but darker than the second one she had tried. He thought it became her. He debated whether he should say so. It had been years since he had remarked, "I see no difference," and he would never again make the mistake of disparaging her appearance. Particularly not now, when he would be lying if he did.

"That's the seventh one you've tried," he pointed out.

"I can't decide," she said miserably. "This one makes me look like a pale fish, and the last made me look like a pregnant school marm, and the one before that made my thighs look big. Each one seems to look worse than the last."

"You know that's not true," he said, sitting up.

"You're such a _flatterer_," she sighed, half-irritably. She turned to her reflection in the mirror, conjured a brush, and began to attack her hair. She seemed to be genuinely distressed. He wondered if it was one of _those_ days; she had been extremely sensitive all week. "I know my looks shouldn't matter to me, but they do. You may think that's silly but I can't help it. And I can't tell if you're patronizing me or mocking me or if you genuinely think—"

"That dress looks good," he interrupted. "On you. As did all the other dresses. As do all of your other things. As will anything else you might choose to wear to the Weasleys' thrice-damned party."

She dropped the brush. Inexplicably, she burst into tears, and it took him the rest of the morning to calm her down. He became more and more aware that things between them were beginning to look less like challenges, and more like domestic bliss. He distrusted the illusion, but allowed himself to be happy, for a little while, as he had her sit on the bed while he wiped away her tears with a rough finger. He thought of so many things he could tell her, but he wasn't sure if she would believe them.

She ended up going to the party in the blue dress, and she still looked good in it three hours later, when Fleur and Bill Weasley's new baby managed to spit on it.

- - -

(end of chapter)

It's surprising, but flatterers really exist outside of stories—and they talk so believably, too.

Things are moving; there are about three chapters left.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten: Shadows**

**- - -**

_I was in search of love in those days, and I went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that here, at last, I should find that low door in the wall, which others, I knew, had found before me_

-- Evelyn Waugh

- - -

The shadows lengthened towards evening, and instead of the scene he had fallen asleep to—his sitting room well-lit by a charmed window in the late afternoon—he woke to the dance of shadows on the walls and to the sensation of his arm going to sleep under a soft burden.

His wife had decided to join him on the cramped sitting room sofa; her eyes were shut and her hair was tickling his nose, and her head was pillowed on his arm and her own arms were wound about his torso. He looked at their legs entangled and felt something ballooning in his chest.

A length wood in the fire cracked in two as it was consumed, and Hermione started awake, nearly falling off the sofa; he caught her and she smiled sheepishly at him.

"Did I disturb you?" she said. "I wanted to take a nap when I got home, but you weren't there and I couldn't sleep." She lifted her head from his arm, allowing the blood to return gushing to his fingers, and propped herself up on her own elbow.

He lifted a hand to smooth the hair from her forehead and thought of the way she used the word _home._

"No, you didn't wake me," he said. "We've both slept a little late, haven't we."

"And missed dinner too," she replied cheerfully. Surprising them both immensely, she moved and swung herself up until she was lying on her stomach on top of him, legs between his own and with her chin pillowed on her crossed arms, which were flush with his chest. His heartbeat began to speed up as the two of them recovered from the initial surprise of being in a position so unfamiliar.

"I have a suggestion," she said, and the mischief in her smile should have sent alarm bells ringing in his head.

_Anything_. "What might that be?" He lifted his hand again to push her hair away; it was wild from their nap and he felt like a lioness' prey, with the lioness herself entrapping him with her small weight and large mane.

"It's Saturday, so you've got no classes tomorrow."

"Yes?"

"And it _is_ rather late, and I'm in no mood for the kitchens' heavy fare."

"And?"

"And you have been growing much stronger…"

"Hermione."

"I propose that we go out for dinner," she said, and an arm snaked out from between their bodies to his face, where her thumb began to stroke his lower lip.

"Say yes or I shall make your mouth say it myself."

This giddy banter—the humor and the comfortableness between them—had come in bits and snatches in the previous weeks but was at its pinnacle now, and he was blown away by the unfamiliar but intoxicating quality of it. He felt young and exuberant, and allowed himself for the moment to forget about everything that had ever happened between them that suggested that they were anything than this pair of a husband and a wife.

He could not, however, forget that there was danger in the outside world. "And what of security?" he said against her thumb.

"Glamours," she said. "Charms."

"Location?"

"Naples." He moved to protest but she bore down on him until their foreheads touched and her hands were on either side of his head. "I don't mean your house, just the surrounding locale. I always wanted to see it at night. And it's not so dangerous in Italy as it is here."

He felt himself losing this mild battle—the convenience of taking a dinner in the kitchens or just taking her off to bed and having no dinner at all seemed less attractive than the tiny adventure she had planned—and he was surprised to discover that he did not mind losing.

"Transport?" he whispered, because her face was very close. He was surrounded by the curtain of her hair, and forgot to think about why she called the house _his house_ while calling the dungeons their _home_.

"Floo," she said. "I know your house is keyed to the floo in the bedroom."

He smiled crookedly. He had been doing that more often in the past weeks. He had been keeping that information from her so that she would not visit the house by herself; the floo connection was not one that the government knew existed, for the ministry did not now allow floo connections to outside of Britain unless it was by special permit, but Dumbledore had seen to it that Snape could easily floo to refuge during his time as a spy to use the Naples house as a bolt-hole.

It was certainly the Headmaster who had told her. At the moment he could not seem to care, and propped himself up on an elbow.

"You seem to have thought of everything. It seems I have no option but to say yes."

She gave a delighted giggle—he forgave her for it—and said, "Truly?" She brushed her hand against his cheek. "Speak'st thou in sober meanings?"

Deciding that her closeness was getting more and more dangerous, he sat up and dislodged her gently until she fell into a giggling pile beside him. "By my life, I do," he said, and her laughter carried him all the way to the bathroom as he prepared to leave.

Half an hour later, they stood before the fireplace, she with black hair and he with brown, both with more subtle glamours that would fade in three hours. They stepped into the floo, leaving seconds before the headmaster burst into the sitting room to find nobody there.

- - -

More than half an hour later their food had arrived and they were ensconced in a warm booth in a restaurant near the Golfo di Napoli. Instead of Apparating, they had bicycled there with transfigured bikes, racing each other over roads and slopes, and stopping briefly to look at the sky over the gulf. Hermione extracted a promise from him that they would look at the stars after dinner, when their bellies were full, and Snape could not bring himself to say no despite the late hour.

Now they were here and talking softly over seafood. The Hogwarts elves were very good at satisfying the hunger pangs of the young and active, but not sufficiently skillful in preparing food for the more discriminating palate. Snape was not sure that he had one of those, but he was certain that this meal was the most satisfying that he had had in a very long time—or was it not the food but the company?

He peered over his pasta at his wife, who was chatting comfortably with the waiter as she asked about the nighttime scenery, the available desserts, and life in Naples in general, all the while using English with but a smattering of Italian.

He was still unsure what made him say yes to her whimsical suggestion of having dinner in another country, but it seemed to make her happy and for the moment he shared her feelings. Why shouldn't he engage in a little wining and dining with his lawfully wedded wife, who no longer seemed to despise the very sight of his face and who was trying to make herself agreeable to him? Why not, when he in his inadequacy seemed for the moment to satisfy her?

He looked at her—at her seafoam green dress, at slope of nose and pout of lip, at the hair he had asked her not to tame—and chanced a glance at the necklace around her neck. He almost winced at the reminder of things unpleasant, when the waiter departed and he allowed himself to force such recollections to the back of his mind. They were quickly succeeded by an unfamiliar sensation that felt much like… hope.

They talked about school, a project that Hermione and Neville Longbottom were undertaking for Pomona Sprout and, amazingly enough, the future. He had thought they would avoid it tonight, when things were safe and easy, but Hermione broached the subject of university as they had several months ago. She was undecided as to which majors to choose, and Snape found himself surprised and disproportionately flattered that she asked for his opinion.

"My present best options include Oxford and the newly-established DMA in Cambridge, but I was also toying with the idea of studying elsewhere," she said, popping an olive into her mouth. She had stolen it from his plate.

"There is always the Sorbonne. I saw the letter you received from them last week." He took a sip of the wine; it was his second glass, and Hermione was on her fourth. "I understand that they have a good Potions theory program, which you can take as a minor, and an excellent Higher Arithmancy program, should that be your preference."

To his surprise, she wrinkled her nose, and he laughed at the unexpectedness of it. "France?" she said. "It's a lovely idea. But I don't fancy the idea of coming home from France only every weekend. I'd like to be able to stay in England during the rest of the week."

His fork stopped midway to his mouth. Hermione noticed and he put it down quickly and took a large gulp of wine to calm himself under her scrutiny. Come home? To England? Home—with him? Still, in the future?

"Severus?" she said. "Are you quite all right? Are you tired?"

"No!" he said emphatically, startling her. "No," he said more softly. "Not at all. I think I—was going to choke. I'm fine now. You were saying?" The words came in a rush, but they met their objective of making Hermione dismiss the subject.

"I was saying it would be better to stay close to home. I appreciate the challenge of going to university speaking a second language, but I couldn't stand the distance."

He chewed slowly and swallowed. The food, which had been so fine when it was first put on his plate, seemed to have turned to ash in his mouth; his easy mood of earlier vanished. "You haven't considered settling in France for the long term?" he said carefully. "For the duration of your university career?"

"I couldn't possibly," she said, without missing a beat. Noticing that both of their plates were clean, she summoned a waiter to ask for dessert. "Who would be in England to make sure you were eating? And not terrorizing the ickle firsties with your foul moods?"

Gradually, he changed the subject, and put this conversation away in the back of his mind. Later he would turn it over and over again in his mind and put it in a pensieve, where he would look at it so often that it would be worn with use, but right now there was dessert, and Hermione laughing and pink with the wine.

They biked home to the Naples house, and he proposed that they stay overnight there but Hermione remembered in her tipsy haze that she had not fed the cat. He helped her to the fireplace in the dark master bedroom of his house, and saw that she stepped in. When she was gone—she hundreds of miles away in Scotland, he in Italy—he allowed himself a moment, a pause for thought.

Would he ever understand his wife—or his place in her future? The things she said filled him with hope, but what if he had been reading her wrong, or what if she changed her mind? The memory of Hermione herself telling him about the repealing of the marriage law—the memory of Arthur Weasley's haggard but triumphant face on the Daily Prophet. Could he allow himself the audacity of hoping?

If there was anything he had learned from his relationship with his wife, it was that the present was better enjoyed than analyzed. For months now he had lived in a paradigm of uncertainty, wavering always between idyllic visions of a future with his wife—the culmination of all of his longings—and the more likely prospect of a life alone after his wife left him, free to pursue her career and romantic entanglements, both of which would satisfactorily not include him. She had had to live with the cadence and changes of his moods, but he had learned to live with hers too, with one day being offered a smile and the next being offered a cold shoulder—with one day being her companion and friend, and the next learning himself to be a cuckolded husband. It was better not to think too much on a future that did not exist yet, than to spoil whatever happiness was held by the present.

And tonight had been happy. He could not remember being happier. If this were to be the last of such heady halcyon nights, then so be it; the memory of it would be held dearer than anything. But she had given him reason to hope that it would continue… and that was enough for him to shake himself from his reverie and to step into his fireplace, back _home._

No sooner had he stepped out of his bedroom's fireplace in the dungeons than he was assaulted. His alarm was swept away by the realization that it was not rogue death-eaters who had flung their arms around his neck and kissed his stubbled chin, but his giggling wife. His heart speeded in its beating for quite another reason, as she tipped his head down and began to kiss him.

As kisses went it was slightly sloppy and more than slightly drunk, but his foolish heart soared. Could she be aware of what she was doing? He gave a thought to stopping her—even put his hands on her shoulders to push her away. The thought that she was merely drunk bloomed in his chest like something poignant and painful, but she overwhelmed his senses and soon after discouraged all thought. He allowed himself to hold her, carefully, as she stood in the darkness of his—their—bedroom holding her and kissing her. As a husband kissed a wife—for the very first time.

How could he describe a kiss like that? The love in his heart had progressed beyond affections and honor and possessiveness and the natural human lust, to the point that whatever she gave to him, he would gladly have taken—as a dog would take a bone thrown to him to keep him quiet. This was why he had been content to imagine, in his mind, scenes of the merely domestic; not even when she had started sleeping in his bed did he allow his imagination to reach into the dark secret world that existed for men and women who were truly married, and whose love found expression in a language that did not consist of words.

He was glad he had never imagined a kiss, for the reality of it would have surpassed the fancy. He could never have made up by himself the sensation of one hand caressing a rough cheek and the other, twining about his cropped hair and sending shivers down his bowed back. He could never have imagined the feel of her dress wrinkling under his grip on her waist, or the way she would push him to the bed so that his knees would bend and they would both collapse on top of the covers. The curtain of her hair, surrounding their faces in its shadow and the cloud of its perfume, entrapped him so that he could give no thought to stopping, no thought to anyone else she had kissed, because at the moment she felt as though she belonged to him.

He thought his heart would stop when, still poised above him and kissing him slowly, she began to unbutton his frock coat.

"Your hair is black now," she whispered suddenly against his mouth, and he remembered their fading glamours. "Your face is yours. Finally. How I've waited, this whole night."

Fear and anticipation rushed through him and he tried to sit up, tried to make her stop so that he might have one moment to think, one moment to remember himself, one moment to understand why she was doing these things. "Hermione—"

"I wanted to kiss you since the moment we landed in your beautiful house," she said, beginning now to trail hot kisses from his ear to his chin and, once, sweetly to his mouth. "But I couldn't kiss you with your hair so brown. I wanted you only to be you."

"Hermione… perhaps we should just…"

"Will you ask me to stop?" she said. "Will you not kiss your Desdemona?"

"You're drunk!" The reference stung him.

"I'm not," she said, sitting up and smiling down at him, a smile that lit the room as though the candles in the sconces had been lit. "Not drunk. Only courageous. I could never bring myself to do this," and she swooped down again to kiss him, "without a little help."

In a smaller voice as she leaned over him, "Please don't reject me."

"I—I won't," he said, grasping her shoulders and trying to understand what she was thinking, and why. "I'm not rejecting you. Never that."

He was rewarded with a beatific smile.

He sat up, looking clearly into her eyes and seeing mirrored, there, the affection and hope that bloomed from his chest to the tips of his fingers, more amazing than the product of any fantasy. Why, Hermione? he thought. It is you who should spurn me, not I you. She kissed him then with swollen lips and laid her palm over his heart. "And I'll still stay," she whispered. "To have you still forget, forgetting any other home but this."

He could only smile. "You're mixing up your Shakespeare."

And for the very first time, he leaned in to kiss her.

- - -

Moments later, they were interrupted by a harsh knocking. Hermione sent him a wistful smile as he rose, still fully clothed, and answered the door to the person in his sitting room; there was only one man who could have been standing there, and sure enough there was Dumbledore.

Snape closed the door carefully behind him and calmly asked the Headmaster, "What brings you here at this late hour, Albus?"

He had felt like handing his superior a reprimand for interrupting him and his wife… but there was something, a grieved and slightly panicked look in the other man's bleak blue eyes that stopped him and made him forget temporarily the bewildering happiness that lay on the other side of the door.

Albus handed him a scroll. "This came tonight," he said. "I tried to find you earlier but you were both not in the castle."

Snape knew a sense of foreboding sneak up on him, a feeling that twisted his gut even as he took the scroll from the headmaster. "Albus," he said, when he had looked at the writing on the parchment, feeling his head begin to spin and his stomach drop out from underneath him. He felt sick. "Albus. What is this?"

He would never forget the next words to come from the headmaster's mouth. "Annulment papers," he said.

Snape's hands began to shake. Hands that had held her so dearly, earlier; hands she had allowed to touch her face, to map it. Now they were ungraceful and seemed beyond his control. "Why?" he could only say. "When?"

Albus seemed to sense that there was no reason to phrase things more gently.

"Hermione obtained the ordinary wizarding annulment forms months ago," he said. "She brought them to Arthur Weasley and briefed him on the process, and wanted to be among the first to have her marriage annulled. I do not know the reason for the delay between the repealing of the law and the arrival of these papers, but Arthur sent them to me today, with a message to tell the both of you that such proceedings may now… take place with alacrity." He eyed Snape carefully. "Such alacrity as you and she may desire."

Snape felt his blood run cold in his veins. Images of the night that had passed—the months they had spent together—danced before his eyes, and he felt sick.

He was still standing in place half an hour later when the headmaster had departed and he heard her call, worriedly, from the other room.

_End of chapter_

---

notes:

1) Flooing across the marvelous distance between Scotland and Naples: is it possible? I prefer to think so. I don't think canon expressly forbids it.

2) DMA – department of Magical Arts. I fancy it's squished somewhere near the River Cam so errant potioneers can have a place to dump their not-so-successful concoctions where they will not be much noticed by anyone except the punters.

3) The restaurant is Antonio e Antonio. Not five-star, but the service is reportedly fast and the seafood good.

4) A free "Strong Poison" cookie for the first person to name the three plays of The bard that were quoted/referenced in this chapter.

5) Annulments generally take longer than a few signed papers. But keep in mind that there is a legitimate reason for these marriages to be annulled; the wizarding government played a part in their coming about, and in a just world, could only help them in clearing up any messes made tout de suite, once any such destructive law were repealed.

6) Apologies as always for the delay. I said at the end of my ficlet "The Curse" that my laptop crashed and I had to replace my unrecovered story chapters; this one surprisingly took just one night to write.


End file.
